


The Sacrifice of Our Enmity

by elizaye



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bathing/Washing, Deception, Drama, F/M, Female!Cas, Fluff and Angst, Genderbending, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, Masturbation, Slow Build, Torture, Trust Issues, War, girl!Cas, warning for antiquated gender roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 130,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaye/pseuds/elizaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a bargain for peace between their nations, Castiel is promised to Dean, King of Laurentia. Neither one of them is pleased with this new development, but a shared sense of duty has them both agreeing to it. As time passes, they come to care for each other, and it seems that fate has given them the means to happiness by bringing them together. But all is not what it seems. Castiel's arrival in Laurentia sets in motion a scheme that has been in the making for years, a scheme that—if successful—could damage their budding relationship irreparably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Castiel will be referred to as "Elle" by a few characters (not Dean).
> 
> **ETA: You can keep up with my progress and/or thoughts about this fic by tracking the[tsooe tag](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/tsooe) on tumblr.**

“Lady Castiel!”

Castiel walks faster, urging Meg to hurry up too, but they don’t move quickly enough to shake off the rapidly approaching pair of footsteps.

“Elle, please—wait.”

Castiel holds back a sigh and slows to a stop. When she doesn’t turn to face her cousin, he steps around to stand in front of her. “Prince,” she acknowledges, forcing a polite smile.

Balthazar’s returning smile is pained. “I promise you, I did everything I could—”

“I believe you,” Castiel interrupts. She doesn’t want to hear his speech, isn’t in the mood for company. “Now if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to return home now. I only have three days left to spend with my brother.”

“If you’re in a hurry to get back, I suppose I cannot stop you,” Balthazar says, looking down. He reaches out for Castiel’s hand and presses a slip of paper into it before she can draw it back. “Meet me here tonight, half an hour past midnight,” he says in a low voice.

“Prince, I—”

“Please don’t call me that, Elle.”

Castiel looks her cousin in the eyes and says, “It’s inappropriate for me to speak to you familiarly.” The way Balthazar’s face falls doesn’t bring her any satisfaction, and she waits for him to leave.

“I’ll be waiting for you there,” he murmurs before heading back up toward the palace.

Castiel closes her fist around the slip of paper and continues walking toward the palace gates. This place used to be her home. She passes through the gardens she used to play in, and she can’t stop the bitterness from welling up in her chest. Maybe it _will_ be better to live in Laurentia, where she won’t have to suffer these familiar walkways and the memories that they hold.

The guards salute her as she passes through the gate, and she graces them with a smile. Inias stands beside her carriage, waiting.

“This was a quick visit, m’lady,” he comments as he opens the door for her.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees succinctly.

She allows Inias to help her into the carriage and takes a seat. Meg steps inside next and sits down across from her. Inias closes the door, and a moment later, the vehicle lurches into motion. Castiel closes her eyes.

“Will you meet him tonight?”

Castiel sighs softly and looks at her maid. “Do you think I should?”

“No,” Meg answers immediately. “Of course, I don’t presume to know your feelings, but if I’m not wrong, you never felt for him before, and seeing him now, only a few days before you’re to leave… it isn’t a good move.”

“You’re right that it’s a bad idea,” Castiel says, looking down at her clasped hands. The slip of paper is still in her hand, and she contemplates throwing it out the window. “But he’s been so much better to Raphael and me than the rest of his immediate family, and I do appreciate that.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean you should go to him,” Meg argues. “It’ll be the middle of the night, and I assume he wants to meet with you in private. It’d be… unseemly.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Castiel concedes. “Thank you, Meg.”

Meg smiles. “It’s no problem at all, Elle.”

Castiel leans forward and pulls the small drape aside to look out the window at the passing landscape—they haven’t reached the turnoff that leads to her estate yet. She sits back, closes her eyes, and lets the curtain fall into place.

She has just been promised to— _sold_ to, really—the King of Laurentia, in a bargain for peace. This trip into the castle was simply to inform her of her impending departure. Apparently, talks have been going on for weeks, but Castiel wasn’t informed until less than an hour ago. It pains her that her uncle would do such a thing to her, but it isn’t surprising. Not anymore. Not after he forced her and her brothers out of their rightful home.

Michael and Lucifer vanished the night that Zachariah took the throne, and Gabriel disappeared soon after. Raphael may have chosen to accept their uncle’s words as truth, but Castiel still firmly believes that their father did not just _abandon_ them, leaving Zachariah to take his place. But she has no proof that her uncle did anything treacherous, and as a woman, she has very little power at her disposal.

Meg’s hand rests over hers, and Castiel’s eyes snap open. “It’ll be okay,” Meg says.

Castiel shakes her head. “I hate to believe the rumors, but in this case, rumors are the only source of information that I have,” she says. “Do you think the king has really bedded so many women?”

There’s a brief pause before Meg answers, “Yes, I do. I’ve heard that in Laurentia, soldiers are allowed to bed as many women as they wish. The king fought alongside the soldiers when he was a prince, so I can only assume—”

“One would hope that a prince would have more dignity than his subjects, even if he stands beside them in battle,” Castiel says stiffly.

“The king is said to be fierce, one of the fiercest fighters in the land,” Meg says.

This isn’t a good quality, not in Castiel’s eyes. She’s always wanted to be the wife of a scholar. A poet, perhaps. “I don’t care much for ferocity,” she says to Meg.

“I hear his brother is more dignified than he is,” Meg comments.

“The second-born or the third?”

“The second, I believe,” Meg answers. “He is supposedly a gentleman. The only shame is that he’s the younger brother, so he wasn’t the rightful heir to the throne.”

“That does sound unfortunate,” Castiel says. The carriage veers to the right, and she knows that they’re almost at the estate. “Are any of our servants from Laurentia?” she asks.

Meg thinks it over for a moment. Finally, she replies, “Yes, I think so. There’s a girl, about our age, but I doubt you’ve met her. She works in the kitchen, mostly.”

“Her name?”

“Anna,” Meg says. When Castiel doesn’t speak, Meg continues, “The king said that you could bring along three personal servants. Will Anna be the third?”

“Perhaps. I’ll need to speak with her,” Castiel answers—it doesn’t need to be said that Meg and Inias are the two other servants she’ll be bringing along. They’ve been with her since she was very small, and they are the two people whom Castiel trusts more than anyone else in the world. She doesn’t think she’d be able to leave them behind if she had to.

The carriage slows to a stop, and Inias opens the door from the outside, holding a hand out to steady Castiel as she disembarks.

“Shall I fetch her for you, then?” Meg asks.

“No, not yet. I’d like to speak with my brother, first,” Castiel says.

Zachariah claimed that Raphael had already known that the negotiations were taking place. If that’s true, Castiel will have to count him as a traitor—he should have _told_ her that this was coming. Maybe if she had enough time, she’d be able to think her way out of the situation, but as it is, she’s leaving in three days’ time, and it just isn’t enough.

As she heads toward the front gate, Castiel decides that she really should meet with her cousin tonight, but she’ll have to be careful.

* * *

“You came.”

Balthazar sounds surprised, and Castiel doesn’t blame him—she’s a little surprised herself. She’d almost lost her nerve more than once, and it was so tempting to stay under the warmth of her coverlet and just sleep.

“Yes,” she says, needlessly. Balthazar reaches for her hand, but she steps back. “You wished to speak with me?” Castiel prompts.

Her cousin averts his gaze. “Yes. Elle, I’m so sorry.”

Castiel frowns at him. “If that is all you had to say to me, then this was a needless risk,” she says. It wouldn’t exactly be an inexcusable offense to be found wandering on the outskirts of their estate at this hour, but being caught alone with a male, especially only a few days before she is to be married, would certainly have severe repercussions. When Balthazar doesn’t respond, Castiel turns to leave.

“Wait,” Balthazar says, catching her arm.

Castiel gasps and spins around, but Balthazar steps forward, retaining his hold on her. “Let me go,” she says, eyes flitting around. She feels a modicum of relief when her scan doesn’t reveal any onlookers, but she still doesn’t feel secure.

“Just listen to me.”

“Then let go of me,” Castiel says, her voice steady.

Balthazar breathes out shakily and releases her arm. “I know you don’t want to do this.”

Castiel laughs bitterly. It’s not something she would do if she were in full possession of her faculties, but it’s very late, and she’s tired. “Understatement,” is all she says.

“Come with me, then.”

Castiel blinks. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand.”

“Come with me,” Balthazar repeats, making an aborted movement to take her hand again. “We can leave everything behind, like Michael and Lucifer. We can even join them, if you want to—I overheard that they’re living somewhere near the border. We can find them.” Castiel shakes her head, eyes wide, but Balthazar continues fervently, “I’ll make sure you’re safe. I’ll take care of you, if you’ll let me.”

“Balthazar… I really can’t,” Castiel says.

“You can,” Balthazar insists, grabbing her hand. Castiel tries to pull her hand back, but he holds on tightly. “Please, Elle. I don’t think I can watch you get married to someone else.”

Castiel finally breaks free and takes a few steps back. “I… I appreciate your sentiment, but you must know that I’ve never returned your feelings.”

“Even so, you don’t have to go to Laurentia,” Balthazar says, but his voice falters. “Come away with me.”

Castiel manages a small smile. “Thank you for offering, but it would be best if we never spoke of this again,” she says. Before Balthazar can protest, she adds, “This is not solely about my happiness or yours. Can you imagine the consequences if this marriage were not completed?”

“For you, I could leave it all behind. I don’t care about the crown, the country, any of it,” Balthazar says.

“But I _do_ ,” Castiel says. “You must know what I think of your father, but whether or not I support our current king, I am still a child of Tarcaelius, and I will not see my country at war, not when there are preventative measures to be taken. What is my life worth in comparison to the lives of our people? If one person must be sacrificed to end the conflict, I am willing to be that person.”

“But… but if you marry the King of Laurentia, you won’t even be one of us anymore,” Balthazar protests, but the argument is weak—even he must know that.

“Balthazar,” Castiel says softly, “my dear cousin. You’ve always been so kind to me, ever since we were children. You are not like your brother and father, and I will miss you very much.”

Balthazar seems to know he’s lost. “Elle…” he says, a pleading note in his voice.

“It would be best if we didn’t see each other again until the departing ceremony,” Castiel says, because if she’s too kind to Balthazar, he’ll never let her leave. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Balthazar gives her a watery smile. “Goodbye, then, milady.”

“Ride safely,” Castiel responds.

She watches Balthazar hop over the short stone wall and mount his horse, but he doesn’t ride off, seemingly intent on watching her. So she turns away and walks back toward the manor, only about half a mile away.

When she looks back over her shoulder a few minutes later, her cousin and his steed are gone.

* * *

Dean doesn’t bother knocking before entering Sam’s private study.

“You know, this room is described as _private_ for a reason,” Sam says without looking up from his papers.

“Yeah well, I’m called _the king_ for a reason,” Dean says. Sam sighs heavily, but Dean goes on, “The thing I like most about being king is that I get to make my own decisions.”

“Dean—”

“Why didn’t you report to me before sealing the agreement?” Dean demands.

“You told me that I shouldn’t bother you with international politics, so I—”

“This isn’t _politics_ , Sam! This is my _life!_ ” Dean barks.

Sam stares up at him for a moment before finally putting his quill down. “As you pointed out, Dean, you’re the king. Your life _is_ politics. The state of the nation is your responsibility, and as it is, I’ve been carrying a _lot_ of your weight. So instead of yelling at me, you should probably be thanking me for sparing you a war.”

“I’d rather go to war,” Dean says impulsively.

“Really,” Sam says, deadpan. “You’d rather spend all of that money on weapons and extra wages, and compensations to the families of the soldiers who die on the battlefield? You’d rather put so many lives at stake? All you have to lose is your status as a bachelor, and I really don’t see how that would matter. You can still sleep with whomever you want even after you’re married. You’re the _king_.”

Dean glares at his brother. “Have you missed the part where you’re just marrying me off like a bargaining chip?”

This gets another stare from Sam, but this time he bursts into laughter. Dean glares down at him, unmoving, and slowly the laughter subsides.

“So, what?” Sam finally says. “Were you… I don’t know, _saving_ yourself for somebody?”

“Wha—no!” Dean protests.

“Then what exactly is your problem? If you don’t want her around, you don’t even have to see her that often. You could even arrange for her to sleep in separate quarters after consummation, if you wanted.”

Dean stares at Sam. “She’d be my _wife_ , Sammy. How could I—”

“I was just saying that you could do it, if you really couldn’t stand her,” Sam says. Dean sighs and drops into the chair in front of Sam’s desk, and Sam rubs his forehead. “Dean, it’s just marriage. You’re going to have to get married at some point, anyway. The noblewomen of Tarcaelius are brought up well. She’d be a good queen.”

“You don’t know a thing about this girl,” Dean says.

“Well, no,” Sam admits.

“So don’t say that she’ll be a good queen. You don’t know that.”

Sam sighs again. “What’s done is done. If you break this accord, we’ll go to war. And I know that deep down, you understand the reasons why this is the best choice.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbles. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I never said you did.”

Dean is silent for a while, and Sam picks up his quill again, returning to his papers. Dean mulls over the situation. He’s never liked the idea of getting married to a total stranger, and though he’d never admit it to anyone, he’s always wanted something like the relationship that Mother and Father had. There had been so much genuine affection between them. It was no surprise that Father couldn’t last long after Mother passed away.

“Tell me about her,” Dean says.

“Sorry, who?” Sam asks, continuing to write.

“This girl. Castle.”

“Castiel,” Sam corrects.

“Yeah, her.”

Sam pauses his writing, quill hovering over the paper as he thinks. Then he sets the quill down and looks at Dean. “I really don’t know much about her personally, but I’ve… I know what happened to her family. It was… unfortunate, to put it mildly.”

“So you only know her political background,” Dean concludes.

“Yes.”

Dean shakes his head and gets to his feet. “It doesn’t interest me.”

“I didn’t think it would, but I do think it would benefit you to know what her life has been like.”

“Never mind,” Dean says, heading for the exit. “She’ll be here in a few days, anyway. I’ll ask her myself.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam says. “And close the door on your way out.”

* * *

Castiel maintains a calm, poised attitude throughout the farewell ceremony. Zachariah gives a long speech about how sad he’ll be to see her go, and she wants more than anything to storm across the few yards separating them and give him a good, solid fist to the nose.

But she is a lady, and ladies don’t do such things.

When Zachariah finally steps back, Raphael takes the stand, and his speech is infinitely better, though it is cut short by an impatient cough from Zachariah. As Castiel is led from the stage, she manages to smile and wave at the crowd of commoners—it is for them that she is giving up her happiness. It will be better for them to think that she goes willingly. Happily.

Raphael rushes off the platform before her and nudges Inias aside, taking up his place by the door to Castiel’s carriage, and she blinks away the tears that rise unbidden to her eyes. He opens the door for her and extends a hand, and she smiles up at him, wondering if this will be the last she sees of her only remaining brother.

“Goodbye, Raphael,” she says, and she’s proud of the steadiness of her voice.

“Goodbye, sister,” Raphael answers, and the hitch in his breath is enough to make her forgive his choice to withhold the truth from her.

Castiel allows Raphael to help her into the carriage and takes her usual seat. Meg and Anna join her inside, sitting across from her—Castiel notes that Raphael steps back to allow Inias to help the maids inside. Then the door swings closed, and Castiel pulls aside the curtain to wave again at the spectators. She sees Balthazar, standing stiffly beside Uriel, and knows that he would have given anything to be in Raphael’s place.

Her eyes fall to her brother again, and though he gives her an encouraging smile, she sees pain in his eyes, proof that she was far from the only victim today.

Then horns are blaring, and the carriage starts to move. Meg snatches Castiel’s hand, pulling it back from the window to let the curtain fall shut. Castiel gives her maid a reproachful look, but Meg just rubs the back of her hand gently.

Castiel blinks, and a tear slips from her eye.

“Oh, Elle,” Meg breathes, leaning forward. Castiel anticipates her intention and shifts to the side, making room for Meg to sit down beside her. “Don’t cry,” Meg says, releasing Castiel’s hand and lifting a kerchief to dab at her eyes.

Castiel holds back a sob and smiles. “I’m not.” She looks over to see that Anna’s averting her eyes, so she reaches out and takes Anna’s hand in hers.

The maid looks up, startled. “Milady?”

“In front of other people, that is what you must call me. But between the three of us, you may address me as you wish,” Castiel says. “We’re going to a different land now, and we will know no souls outside our own party. Let us be like sisters.”

Anna nods tentatively. “What should I call you, then?” she asks.

“Elle,” Meg supplies. “It’s been our nickname for her for years.”

“Elle,” Anna repeats, squeezing Castiel’s hand. “I… I’m so thankful to you. I have wanted to return to my homeland for a very long time. I don’t even know if my parents are still alive.”

Castiel releases Anna’s hand and smiles again. “After we are settled in, I will dispatch people to find your parents for you, then.” She is fairly certain that this much at least will be within her power—she will be the queen, after all.

This is a strange thought. Until this point, Castiel hasn’t really thought much of the power she will most likely have at her disposal. She immediately remembers what Balthazar had said that night about her missing brothers and wonders if she will finally be able to find them. It’s been over seven years since she saw them last, and she’d only been a little girl at the time, but she’d _known_ that something was wrong.

“I know this probably won’t be much comfort to you, but Balthazar persuaded the king to allow us another guard, in addition to Inias,” Meg says.

Castiel frowns. “Why wasn’t I informed about this?”

“There was no time,” Meg answers. “Inias told me minutes before the ceremony. Balthazar gave up Samandriel.”

Castiel has always been good at keeping an unaffected expression, and the skill comes in handy now. “He did what?” she asks. Samandriel is to Balthazar what Inias and Meg are to Castiel. The guard has served Balthazar for almost his entire life, and to give him to Castiel…

“I was surprised as well,” Meg says. She adds to Anna, “Samandriel is one of Balthazar’s most trusted servants.”

“He shouldn’t have,” Castiel murmurs, but she understands why he did so—she knows the way her cousin thinks, knows that if he couldn’t accompany her himself, he would send his most trusted friend with her.

Castiel falls silent, and her two servants accompany her wordlessly.

Hours later, when Anna and Meg have nodded off, Castiel finally allows herself to think back on her home, the home that hasn’t truly been hers for over seven years, and the tears start to fall.


	2. Chapter 2

“Dean, stop fidgeting,” Sam hisses.

“Keep your mouth shut, Sam,” Dean snaps, but he does as Sam says and stops fussing with the cuffs of his sleeves. He hates dressing up for occasions, and the outfit he’s currently wearing feels especially confining.

It’s okay. Father Murphy promised that he would keep the ceremony short. It’s evening anyway, so it’s not as though they would have time for all of the typical festivities that come with a wedding.

“Nervous?” Adam mutters from Sam’s other side.

Dean raises an eyebrow even though Adam can’t see him. “Have you ever seen me nervous?”

“There is a first time for everything,” Adam responds nonchalantly.

Between them, Sam clears his throat, and they fall silent.

The crowd parts, letting a small procession of foot soldiers through. Dean tenses in a reflexive response to the enemy attire before remembering that these aren’t the enemy anymore. He notices Sam glancing at him worriedly and can’t help a flare of annoyance—does Sam think he’s a complete moron?

In all probability, yes.

A horse-drawn carriage pulls into view, relatively plain, with only one man at the reins. Dean frowns. He’s heard plenty about how extravagant King Zachariah is when it comes to his palace and his family, so he’d been expecting much more fanfare. The servant manning the reins hops off the carriage and steps around to the side, pulling open the door and holding his hand out to help his master down.

Dean wants to look, but at the same time, he really, really doesn’t. Looking will make this all completely real, and he won’t be able to pretend it isn’t happening. Damn Sam. Damn everything.

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, and Dean senses Sam tensing up beside him, so he forces himself to lower his gaze from the clouds to the carriage fifty yards down the street. Wait, _what_ —

The figure that has just stepped out of the carriage is completely dressed in black—the floor-length cape around her shoulders, the netted veil that partially obscures her face, the bit of her gown that is visible, _everything_ is black, the color of mourning.

Dean hardly even notices the two servants that step out behind her. What is she mourning? Is this supposed to be some sort of an insult? If it is, he’s certainly not going to take it lying down.

She steps forward, flanked by two maids and two guards. The soldiers move aside to let her pass, heads lowered in respect, and Dean watches closely as she reaches the foot of the steps and starts climbing up. Her head is lowered, and the long, swishing cloak hides her form.

When she reaches the platform, she takes two steps forward and kneels before Dean, head still bowed. He resists the instinct to catch her—people don’t often kneel here, but Sam told him before the ceremony that kneeling is a required gesture of respect in Tarcaelius.

“Your Majesty,” she says, and Dean is surprised at the deep timbre of her voice.

“Stand,” Dean says.

He starts to hold a hand out to help her up, but she’s already taking her servant’s hand, so he stops himself. Finally, Castiel lifts her head, and the first thing Dean notices is the perfect, plush shape of her pink lips. Through the dark veil, it’s near impossible to make out the rest of her face. Her hair—also black, coincidentally—is swept up into a bun, and Dean wonders how long it is.

“You have some nerve, dressing like this,” he murmurs.

Those lips stretch into a small smile. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, sire.”

Sam coughs again, lightly, and Dean turns around to face Father Murphy. Castiel steps up beside him, and as Father Murphy lifts his book to start reading, Dean reaches to the side and takes Castiel’s hand in his. Her hand is cold and stiff, her long, slim fingers barely curling around his, and Dean wonders what she’s feeling right now—fear, nerves, dread?

Dean is hardly aware of anything throughout Father Murphy’s reading, reciting his vow dutifully when the time comes.

All of his attention is centered on the silent figure at his side, and he wonders how he could possibly be so drawn to a person so quickly—he hasn’t even seen her whole face. Her hand is more relaxed now, warmed by his, and he slowly shifts his grip so that their fingers are laced together. He gently rubs her thumb with his, and her hand stiffens again. She is not as unruffled as she pretends to be, then.

Good.

* * *

Castiel’s first impression of the King of Laurentia is that he is very tall—much taller and broader than she is. He has bright, green eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. She also notices his brothers, standing to his left—the one closer to him should be the second-born, Sam, making the other the youngest, Adam.

Despite the way Sam looms over her—yes, he’s even taller than the king—he seems kind, and behind the safety of her veil, Castiel can let her gaze linger on the tall man’s warm, brown eyes. If he’d been the eldest…

But these thoughts are inappropriate, and as she steps forward to stand before the priest, she forces her mind to go blank. It doesn’t matter what Castiel thinks of Sam. After today, only the king will matter.

As this thought crosses her mind, the king’s hand, big and rough and warm, reaches past the hem of her cloak and draws out her own hand. She resists the impulse to pull it back, because that would be a sure sign of disrespect. She has already decided that she should be a dutiful and obedient wife, because that is what is required of her. Anything less would be disgraceful.

So she holds her head high and endures the priest’s brief speech. She listens especially carefully to the king’s recitation of his vow, but she cannot tell whether or not he means the words that he says. Then the priest is addressing her directly, leading her through her own vows, and she speaks loudly and clearly, ignoring the way the king is slowly rubbing his thumb against hers.

Perhaps he is attempting to incite a reaction from her, in retaliation for her choice of dress.

The black had been Anna’s suggestion. In Tarcaelius, _white_ is the color of mourning. Black is reserved for solemn occasions, and while weddings are generally considered to be joyous, it would be respectful in Castiel’s land to dress completely in black for marrying into a family of higher social standing. Anna had informed Castiel that black was the color of mourning in Laurentia, and thus would be the perfect color for her wedding attire—Castiel could then broadcast her sorrow to the world, and if asked, she could easily claim ignorance.

Ironically, the king’s clothing is all white, save the gold trimming along the edges of his cape.

Castiel finishes her vow without incident, and the priest begins to read his parting words, wishing the best to the newlywed couple and to the now-joined nations. The priest steps back and to the side, as though to let them step inside. Castiel starts to move forward, but the king gives her hand a quick jerk, and she spins toward him to find him already facing her. His lips quirk in a small smile, but she sees no hint of humor in his eyes.

His free hand brushes her chin, and then he’s tipping her head up and leaning down. Castiel watches his eyes close just before their lips come into contact, and she inhales sharply through her nose. His lips are soft, dry, and warm, and Castiel wonders despite herself what is so special about kissing. She has overheard conversations about the pleasures of the flesh, but it is merely physical contact—there is nothing particularly stimulating about it. She can endure it, but she cannot imagine actively seeking it out. She’s acutely aware of all the eyes upon them and hopes this will end soon.

Then the king draws back, and Castiel lowers her head again, relieved.

* * *

Dean knew that custom called for the bride and groom to pay respects to the parents—in this case, they would be standing in silence in front of a painting of his mother and father—before they could truly be considered a couple, but he couldn’t resist pulling Castiel in for a kiss, where the world could see.

She hadn’t lost composure, but it was strangely gratifying to catch that quick inhale, inaudible to anyone but the two of them. And he was pleased with the knowledge that her lips were just as soft as they looked. It had taken all of his self-control to keep himself from licking into her mouth, sliding his hands around her waist and discovering for himself what she was hiding under that damned cloak.

Now he sits in the main banquet hall, at the head of a table that holds several of his relatives as well as his most trusted knights. The seat to his left is empty. Apparently, tradition dictates that Tarcaelian brides can’t be seen by other men from the minute the ceremony ends until the following morning, so Castiel and her two servant girls were led to Dean’s bedchamber as soon as the ceremony ended.

“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean looks quickly at his brother. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Dean answers, and the smug, knowing look on Sam’s face is almost too much for him to handle.

“Lady Castiel was very impressive,” Adam says from Dean’s other side—the head of this table seats four people, so naturally, Dean chose his two brothers to sit with him. “She has more poise than the ladies of her age in our land.”

“It’s true,” Sam agrees.

“What I don’t understand is the reason why she chose to enter in mourning,” Adam continues. “I admire her nerve, of course, but I just don’t know why.”

“I shared your thoughts before, but now that I have had some time to think, I recall learning that black is actually not a color of mourning in Tarcaelius,” Sam says.

“Really?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. “What is it supposed to mean, then?”

“Black is to be worn on very solemn, very important occasions,” Sam answers.

“But surely she could have found out its meaning in our land,” Adam says.

“She just as easily could have gone through life without ever hearing of it,” Sam replies easily.

“I could just ask when I see her, but then I’d lose the entertainment of your bickering,” Dean says. Both brothers fix Dean with annoyed looks, and he smirks. “Seems I haven’t lost my touch.”

“Speaking of losing touch, how long has it been since you last slept with a woman?” Adam asks.

Dean raises an eyebrow at his little brother, then casts his eyes about the table. Luckily, the other nobles seem to be engrossed in small conversations. Dean shakes his head. “Is that any of your business?”

“I was just wondering if you were nervous about tonight.”

“Why would I be nervous?”

“Lady Castiel is… well, a _lady_ ,” Adam says.

“You say this as though I’ve never bedded a lady before,” Dean scoffs.

“Not one like her,” Sam says.

Dean keeps a cocky grin in place as he says, “It won’t be a problem.” And he believes that he won’t have any trouble in the bedroom, but now he’s thinking about sleeping with Castiel, and the food in front of him suddenly looks much less appetizing.

“You can go, if you like,” Sam says. “Adam and I can handle the others—they’ll understand.”

Dean gives Sam a grateful smile and gets to his feet, excusing himself. But the annoyingly smug look is back on Sam’s face, so as Dean leaves, he reaches out to ruffle Sam’s hair, because the little shit deserves it.

* * *

“Are you scared?” Anna asks.

Castiel smiles, glad that the veil hides the top half of her face so well, because she can’t make the smile reach her eyes in this moment. “Of course not,” she says, and her voice exudes confidence that she doesn’t really have.

This time, she really is completely and truly out of her depth. She hasn’t ever even pleasured herself before—how can she be expected to bring pleasure to a man? But from others’ accounts, it seems she won’t have to participate too much. She hopes that that is the truth.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Anna says with a reassuring smile. “The king… if you really don’t want to do this, he will not force you to.”

“Oh, really?” Meg scoffs, arching one brow. “And how would you know that? Have you met him?”

Anna flushes at the question and answers, “Before I was taken to Tarcaelius, he saved my life. He was still a prince, then. And I know for a fact that he was not cruel. Crude, maybe, but not cruel.”

Meg shakes her head. “He was only a prince, then. And besides, _you_ didn’t reject him. Obviously he wouldn’t be cruel to you.”

Castiel blinks up at Meg, because she hadn’t even thought about Anna having potentially had carnal relations with the king. But now that Meg has pointed it out, the fact is clear as day, and Anna’s deepening blush only serves to confirm it.

“Submit,” Meg advises Castiel, and part of her recoils at the thought. “You are his woman now, and it is his right to take you, willing or not, but if you submit to him, he most likely won’t hurt you.”

“He wouldn’t hurt her at all,” Anna protests.

Meg turns to Anna, an annoyed look on her face, but Castiel cuts her off by clearing her throat. “Don’t argue. Please.” She doesn’t like the thought of surrendering meekly to anyone’s will, but she’s already accepted her position as wife to a king. If she resisted now, it would reflect badly not only on her own character, but on her people as well.

“Sorry, Elle. I didn’t want to argue,” Meg says. “But I know you. I know your temper, and I worry that if he pushes too far—”

“I know what I’m doing,” Castiel interrupts shortly.

Meg opens her mouth to continue, but the door swings open, and the king steps inside. Castiel gets to her feet respectfully. Anna and Meg move aside, and the king gestures for them to leave the room. Castiel catches a look of reassurance from Anna as she passes by, and the door closes on Meg’s concerned face.

Castiel looks back at the king, but he hasn’t moved from his spot near the door. The chamber isn’t large, though, so he is only a few steps away from his desk, where Castiel is standing.

“I’m Dean.”

The redundancy of the statement makes Castiel smile despite herself. “Yes, I know,” she responds, and the king laughs lightly. He’s silent for a while, as though waiting for her to speak. But she isn’t sure how to proceed, so she waits for him to take the lead.

“So,” he finally says. “What are you wearing?”

Castiel frowns. “I… am wearing clothing,” she says. When he only looks at her, puzzled, she adds, “I’m afraid I don’t understand the question.”

“Why are you completely dressed in black?” the king rephrases.

She tilts her head to the side. “I… it is a gesture of respect,” she answers, feigning confusion. “Was it the wrong color to wear?”

The king smiles. “Black is the color of mourning in Laurentia.”

Castiel widens her eyes in mock surprise, even as she realizes that he can’t really see the upper half of her face. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” the king says, still smiling. “I don’t care what the people think.”

“You should,” Castiel says, and she immediately wants to clap a hand over her mouth—she did not come here to tell the king what he should or should not do.

But the smile is _still_ on his face, and he finally moves toward her, slow and sure. She lowers her head, deferent, and sees his boots stop just as they enter her field of vision.

“Look at me.”

His voice is softer, coaxing, and Castiel obeys. _Submit_ , Meg had said. The king reaches up and lifts the veil, pulls it off her head. She tries again to look down and away, but he catches her chin, keeps her face tilted up toward him.

Castiel blinks once, slowly, trying to decide which course to take. But in the end, she trusts Meg more than she does Anna. Instead of staring back into his eyes defiantly, she only lets her gaze rest on his for a moment before letting her eyes flutter closed.

* * *

Gods above. Dean had appreciated the shape and shade of Castiel’s mouth during the ceremony, had liked the smoothness of her skin, but he hadn’t anticipated such beauty hidden under the veil.

There’s something foreign about her features—a voice in the back of Dean’s head reminds him that she’s from a different land. She has high cheekbones and a small, pointed nose. Her eyes are a shade of blue that he’s never seen the likes of, and when she closes them, he almost tells her to open them again, just so that he can look at them for a little longer.

And it occurs to him that Cas is his wife now— _his_ —and he is allowed to look at her for as long as he wants. He brings his other hand up and cups her cheek, running callused fingers over her smooth, white skin. Then he steps a little closer and reaches behind her head to remove the pins holding her hair up. He drops two pins on the ground, and her hair comes cascading down over her shoulders and around her face, softening her features.

“Majesty,” she murmurs, eyes opening again.

Dean shakes his head and runs his fingers through her hair. “Don’t call me that.”

She looks down and tries, “My Lord.”

“Not that, either,” Dean says. “I just told you my name.”

“Dean,” she says tentatively, and he likes the way her lips part around his name.

He brings his hands down to her throat, unties the knot holding her cloak together, and lets it drop to the floor. Under it, Cas is wearing a long-sleeved silk gown—black, of course—and Dean runs his hands down her arms, enjoying the feeling of silk under his fingers.

“Cas,” he breathes, and leans in to kiss her.

Her mouth opens hesitantly when he presses forward, and his tongue delves in, tasting her for the first time. She makes a small sound in her throat, lips moving with his, but he can tell she’s inexperienced. This might even be her first real kiss. The thought has him pulling her up against his chest, reveling in the way she feels up close, small and soft. His trousers begin to feel too tight.

Dean shifts, kisses along the line of her jaw and down her neck, mouth skimming over flawless skin. Then he reaches behind her, pulls her hair to the side, and unties the laces at the back of her dress. As he slips the sides of the dress over her shoulders, he kisses the exposed skin and is surprised to find a small, thin scar on her right shoulder, near the base of her neck.

He runs his tongue over the mark, unable to stop himself, and she shudders. “What happened here?” he asks in a hushed tone.

“Hunting accident.”

Her voice is steady, far steadier than Dean’s used to, given that he is currently tugging the sleeves of her dress down her arms and off. Dean backs up to look at her as he pushes the dress down until it’s free of her hips and lets it fall the rest of the way to the floor.

She makes no move to cover herself as Dean stares, and he backs up a few steps, pulling her with him so that she’s not standing in a puddle of her own clothing. It’s ridiculous how vulnerable and pure she looks to him, covered only by a black chemise—she isn’t even wearing stockings, and he notes belatedly that she’s barefoot. She must have removed her shoes when she came into the room, he infers, but he’s unable to dwell on this for long, eyes straying back up to her face.

Black is not at all an innocent color, far from the purity Cas seems to exude. It must be her eyes, wide and doe-like and that particular shade of blue.

Dean tries to picture her holding a sword, or maybe a crossbow, standing in the green wood. “You hunt,” he says, disbelief showing in his tone.

“Not well,” Cas answers quietly.

Dean laughs and leans down, kissing her again. It still takes a moment of coaxing to get her mouth open, but the taste of her is certainly worth the effort, and he groans into her mouth, slowly runs his hands down her sides.

When his hands reach her hips, he turns her around quickly, and she gasps, surprised. He wastes no time in stepping close, close enough that he can feel her body heat. He sees the way her shoulders tense up, though, and it gives him pause, because she should feel relaxed in his presence.

Dean settles his hands on the wide flare of her hips and, keeping them above the shift, slides them up, tracing her outline until he reaches her chest. He cups her breasts, and she jerks backwards, colliding with his chest by accident.

“Sorry,” she says instantly, voice pitched low, and Dean takes a moment to decide whether her reaction was due to nerves, or the fact that she might not want this.

So he drops his head down and mouths along the delicate curve of her neck, but she remains tense and silent in his arms. Holding back a sigh, Dean turns Cas back around and presses his lips to hers again, pleased when she immediately parts her lips to let him in. He pulls her close, but not so close that she can feel his erection, because he can see now that she isn’t ready.

Thoughts fade from his mind quickly, every part of him attuned to the kiss, and Cas is a quick learner, because her tongue tangles expertly with his. Her hands rest lightly on his biceps, and Dean feels a glimmer of hope that maybe she _is_ ready. But when he pulls her flush against him, he catches the moment of stiffness in her limbs, the brief stutter in the motion of her tongue.

Dean breaks their kiss when he’s out of breath and straightens in time to watch her large eyes flutter open. Her lips are parted, red and swollen and utterly perfect, and Dean thinks he could kiss her forever. But he forces himself to take a step back, and Cas tilts her head slightly, looking confused.

“My Lord—”

“Dean, Cas. My name is Dean,” he reminds her.

She nods and says, “Dean, what are you doing?”

He flashes a smile at her and gestures toward the large bed. “Sleep. I will be back soon.” Dean heads toward the door, but Cas’s voice stops him—

“Where are you going, and why?”

Dean looks back at Cas and wants—fuck, he _wants_ —but he knows he has plenty of time. He can wait for her to be ready. “I haven’t forced any girl to sleep with me against her own will, and I don’t plan to start with my wife,” he answers.

Cas has a surprised look on her face, and Dean remembers that the servants should not know of this, that if word gets out that they have not consummated the marriage, complications could arise. So he strides back to the bed, draws his hunting knife, and slides it across his left—non-dominant—hand. He hears Cas’s gasp behind him, and he’s just squeezed some drops of blood onto the sheets when she reaches him, catching his hand in a firm grip and wrapping her handkerchief around it to staunch the bleeding.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she says in a stern voice, tying the ends of the handkerchief together, and he marvels at the fire in her eyes as she works. But it disappears when she turns her eyes back to his, and he feels the cold clench of disappointment in his chest, quickly followed by the fevered heat of the hunt—he wants to draw the fire out of her, wants to know what Cas is like when she is unrestrained. Wants her to _trust him_.

“You should be thanking me,” Dean says.

She nods once, quickly, and averts her eyes. “Sorry, My—Dean.”

Her slip makes him smile despite himself, and he says, “Just thank me and get into bed.”

“Thank you,” Cas says, and when she looks up at him again, it seems sincere.

Satisfied, Dean steals another kiss from those pretty, pretty lips before turning around and going to the adjoining antechamber. He is pleased to see that his servants have cleared out, as he’d instructed. Then he leans against the wall beside the door and unbuttons his trousers, slipping his right hand inside to curl around himself.

The brief pain of drawing his own blood had caused his erection to flag, but a few strokes bring him back to full hardness, and it doesn’t take long for him to finish. He conjures up a few images of Cas—plump lips stretched wide around his cock, or maybe with her head thrown back in ecstasy as he ruts into her, blue eyes large and shocked and near-black with pleasure—and he comes with a groan, spilling onto the ground.

He gives himself a moment to come down before removing his tunic—the coat and vest that he’d worn for the ceremony had been discarded before the banquet, which was far less formal than the ceremony itself—and taking a knee to wipe up his spend. He does not clean meticulously because he honestly can’t be bothered. It is not too important, anyway—no one will be inspecting the ground closely.

When he is done, he reenters the bedchamber.

* * *

Castiel has already slipped under the covers and is lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling, when she hears a low moan, muffled by the door. Her cheeks flush at the realization that the king—Dean—is pleasuring himself.

She curls up on her side, facing away from the door, and closes her eyes.

_Cas_. She hears the nickname in Dean’s voice and considers it. No one has ever called her by that name before, and she can’t decide whether or not she likes it.

Castiel thinks back to what she’d expected of Dean. Laurentians are violent, and their king was rumored to be more so than most. She’d braced herself for rough treatment, for aggression. Laurentia is not necessarily a state of savages, but according to battle accounts, they certainly fight like barbarians.

But the rumors seem to be wrong. So, so wrong.

Castiel recalls how gently he’d touched her face, the surfaces of his palms coarse with calluses and roving over her skin carefully, like he knew his strength and was ensuring that he would not hurt her by accident. She draws her bottom lip into her mouth, worrying it between her teeth as she relives the sensation of kissing him. She had never been kissed on the lips before today, and while the first kiss—the one from the wedding—hadn’t had much of an effect on her, she must admit that the kisses that followed were far more affecting.

Then she hears the door open and close, and she slows her breathing to feign sleep.

The sound of Dean’s boots hitting the ground moves closer, and then there are some rustling sounds that are most likely Dean undressing for bed. A moment later, the bed dips, and the covers lift, bringing in a gust of cold air. Castiel shivers despite herself and curls up tighter, and then the covers drop again. She is acutely aware of Dean’s proximity—he emanates so much warmth.

“Cas?” he whispers.

Castiel doesn’t respond, curious as to what he will do if he thinks her unconscious. His hand runs over her bare neck, brushes her cheek. She makes a humming sound low in her throat, but Dean doesn’t remove his hand, traces the shape of her ear with a finger. The bed shifts as Dean moves, and then he’s pressing a light kiss to her shoulder, right over that old scar of hers, and Castiel forces herself to hold still.

After some more shifting, Dean stills behind her, and Castiel allows herself to relax.

She still remembers the day she’d gotten the scar, remembers hearing Inias’s panicked shout and turning her head to see the arrow coming straight at her. She’d tried to duck, but she hadn’t been quick enough, and the sharp head had grazed her shoulder.

Balthazar had been the one who’d inadvertently shot at her, and this event was the one that had led to their friendship—of course they’d known of each other before, but they’d never had occasion to speak with one another.

It is difficult to think of home, lying under a thick woolen blanket with a man she hardly knows—practically a stranger—settled right behind her. No, she reminds herself. This is home now. She is no longer a citizen of Tarcaelius. She no longer even retains her own last name.

Castiel Winchester.

_Cas_.

Castiel listens to the way Dean’s breaths even out, nice and slow and deep, and tells herself that whether or not she likes that nickname, she will get used to it.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s bright—too bright—when Dean opens his eyes, so he immediately shuts them again. He stretches his limbs out, yawning, and frowns when he realizes that the other side of the bed is empty. He opens his eyes again and confirms that Cas is gone. This is strange, but it’s also a blessing, because Dean might just have the worst case of morning wood ever.

He stretches out again, languid and unhurried, before slipping his right hand into his trousers to fist his cock. He groans, works himself in long, slow strokes, and it’s impossible that he’s already so close, but his body doesn’t seem to care about what he thinks is impossible. He tightens his grip, tosses his head back, and thrusts up into the snug ring of his fingers.

He throws his left arm over his face and is momentarily distracted by the flutter of white around his hand, and then he remembers that this is Cas’s handkerchief, stained a little by his blood.

A bad idea enters his mind then, and he pulls his hand away from his dick, undoes the knot in the square of white cloth. He glances at his left hand and is satisfied to see that it is healing over well—he hadn’t cut himself deeply, after all. Then he covers his right hand with the cloth and shoves his hand back into his pants. The feeling of silk traveling up and down his length makes him shudder, and when he uses only four fingers, it’s almost too easy to imagine that this is actually Cas stroking him, her smaller hand wrapped in a kerchief to keep it clean.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, arching off the bed, and then he’s coming, working himself through it with a slightly shaking hand.

His torso drops back to the wool mattress, chest heaving, and Dean doesn’t even bother trying to regulate his breathing. He pulls his hand out of his trousers, bringing the handkerchief with it, and hopes that Cas won’t ask for it back—at least, not until he’s had a chance to have it washed. He tries to wipe his hand with it, but what spots aren’t stained with blood are soaked with come, and he gives it up quickly, wipes his hand on the outside of his trousers—they’ll need to be washed as well.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and Dean sits up. “Who is it?”

“Castiel. May I come in?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Dean answers, quickly stuffing the soiled square of cloth under the covers. As Cas comes inside, Dean says, “You know, this is your room too, now. You don’t have to knock.”

She smiles. “I apologize. I am unfamiliar with most of your customs. We are more… formal in Tarcaelius.”

“I can see that,” Dean says, finally looking over. Cas is holding a tray of food, and she sets it down on his desk. “What is that?” he asks, watching as she takes a high stool and sets it down beside the bed.

She doesn’t answer him, just carries the tray over and balances it on the stool. On the tray is half a loaf of bread, a generous chunk of cheese, and a bowl filled with some kind of a broth that smells heavenly. She carefully cuts a slice of bread from the loaf and dips a corner of it in the broth before holding it up to Dean, but he shakes his head, waiting for her to explain.

Cas puts the piece of bread back down on the tray and averts her eyes. “I understand that this may not be common practice in your land—the workers in the kitchen were quite keen to inform me of this—but it is tradition for a noblewoman to make breakfast for her husband on their first morning as a couple.”

As she speaks, Dean notes that she’s wearing a plain, light blue gown, and he can’t help but think that she would look better in a darker shade, one that’s closer to her eye color. When Cas stops talking, Dean smiles and wraps his hand around her wrist, pulls her down to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Sounds like a good tradition,” he says, and leans in to kiss her.

Cas meets his lips without hesitation, but she pulls back before he’s ready, and he follows, hands coming up to cup the back of her head. But some strands of her hair drag across the cut in his left palm, and he hisses involuntarily. Cas backs off, eyes wide.

“Dean, your hand—”

“—is fine,” Dean finishes. He pulls his hand back and looks down at it—the cut is dry, though it appears her hair may have taken off a bit of the dried blood. She takes his hand in both of hers, head bowed to look at the wound. “I’ve had worse,” Dean adds, trying to reassure her.

Cas looks back up at him. “You really shouldn’t have,” she says. “I could have done it myself.”

Dean grins. “Hey, it makes a lot more sense for me to be walking around with a cut on my hand than you. Besides, what’s another scar to me? But you… it’d be a shame to damage your skin.”

Cas gives him a small smile, and he realizes that this is the first time he’s really seen her smile—the one at the wedding doesn’t count, because the veil had been covering up half of her face. She leans forward, eyes fluttering shut, and presses a light kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His heart _flies_ , and Christ, if so small a gesture is enough to get this reaction from him, then he really is doomed. Mother used to tell Dean stories about falling in love at first sight, and he’d always laughed at them. Now, he wonders if that is what is happening to him. He can’t remember ever feeling this way about a girl, and it scares him.

Then Cas is leaning back and turning to the tray to cut a new slice of bread. He reaches out to take the one that she’d put down earlier, but she slaps his hand aside without even looking.

In the next moment, she’s staring at him with wide eyes, as though she’s only just realized that the hand she struck belongs to a king. “Dean, I—”

“It’s fine,” he says with a smile. “Cas, you’re my wife. Don’t be scared of me—can you do that?”

She nods and dips the piece of bread into the broth before holding it out to him. He takes the food this time and bites into it. A moan works its way out of his throat before he’s even aware of it—with each bite, the bread gives up some more of the broth it had soaked up, and a rich, savory flavor that Dean hasn’t tasted before explodes on his tongue.

He swallows his mouthful and asks, “What _is_ that?”

Cas smiles and answers, “An old family recipe. I’m glad you like it.”

“You have to teach the cooks how to make this,” Dean says.

“Why should I? I won’t be going anywhere. When you want it, just tell me.”

Dean finishes the piece of bread and breaks off a bit of cheese. He will probably ask Cas to teach the cooks anyway, because he wants to show this to Sam and Adam and some of the knights as well, and it wouldn’t be right to make Cas cook for everyone—she’s the _queen_. But he can’t bring himself to argue with her at this moment, because his mind might still a bit preoccupied with the fact that Cas _won’t be going anywhere_.

* * *

It is required for the king and queen to appear before their subjects on the day after their wedding, so Castiel finds herself seated at the head of a long table, with Dean on her right and Adam on her left.

“I heard you made breakfast for my brother this morning,” Adam says.

Castiel nods. “I realize it was inappropriate, but—”

Adam stops her with a shake of his head. “Not at all,” he says. “It’s definitely not normal, a lady like you going into the kitchens, but there aren’t any rules against it.”

Sam chimes in from Dean’s other side, “Dean won’t stop talking about the soup that you made for him. I hope you’ll make it for us too, sometime.”

“You only have to name the day,” Castiel says, leaning forward slightly to see Dean’s other brother.

“Not without my say-so,” Dean cuts in, but he’s smiling, so Castiel supposes that he’s joking.

Castiel settles in and enjoys the food—it is richer than the food she has been served in the last seven years, because while Zachariah himself lived a lavish lifestyle, he expected his subjects to be content with much more austere existences. To that end, he rationed meats and spices, forcing people to survive mostly on vegetables, tubers, and coarse grains. The abundance of rich meats and strong flavors reminds her of her childhood, and for the first time since she heard the news of her impending marriage, Castiel is _happy_. Wistful too, perhaps, but happy nonetheless.

Then Dean’s voice is pulling her out of her thoughts. “I thought I’d tell you about each of the people at this table.”

Castiel nods. “I would appreciate it.”

“Well, you’ve already met my brothers, Sam and Adam, so I’ll just start on the right side,” Dean says with a small hand gesture. Castiel looks at him attentively, and he begins to introduce the people at the table to her.

Robert—or Bobby, as Dean prefers to call him—was the former king’s advisor, and he’d stayed on as advisor when Dean took the throne. But since Sam deals with a great deal of the political decisions, Bobby advises the two of them about equally. Castiel doesn’t quite understand how that would work, but she holds her tongue, allowing Dean to continue.

The other four men sitting on the right side of the table are Dean’s most trusted knights. In order, their names are Victor, Gordon, Caleb, and Garth. Castiel is surprised to see that two of them are men of color—colored men are rarely seen in Tarcaelius.

Dean briefly lists their attributes, and Castiel takes care to ascribe the details with the men’s names and faces—Victor is quick-witted and steady, Gordon is arguably the strongest fighter but also the most likely to lose his temper, Caleb is the stealthiest, and Garth…

“Dean?” Castiel prompts when Dean’s voice fades.

“Garth is special,” Adam supplies.

“Hey, I heard that,” Bobby says, fixing a stern look on Adam.

“He’s Bobby’s nephew,” Dean says to Castiel.

“Yes. He’s eccentric, but a surprisingly good fighter,” Sam adds.

“That isn’t so surprising,” Bobby says dryly. “I trained him myself.”

Sam smiles. “I only meant that you wouldn’t think so, looking at him.”

Castiel is inclined to agree—though Garth sits toward the other end of the table, she can see that his build is much slighter than those of the other three knights. The difference is made even more obvious when he leans closer to Caleb to share something with him in low tones.

“Garth is younger,” Dean says. “I knighted him last year for his part in crushing the Scurian resistance.”

“Oh,” Castiel says. She hadn’t been very interested in the political happenings outside of Tarcaelius for most of her life, but she does remember overhearing a conversation between her cousins about a rebellion in Scuri, a nation known for its skilled bladesmiths that was recently conquered by Laurentia.

Dean continues the introduction on the left side of the table, starting with the man closest to Adam. These are Dean’s blood relatives. The first is Mark, whom Dean describes as “nice enough, once you get to know him.” Then there’s Johnny—Castiel infers that this is just a nickname and that his given name is more likely John. He lives to the south, far from the capital, but he travelled here to be present for the wedding. To Johnny’s left is an empty seat, and Dean says that the missing man’s name is Christian.

The way Dean spits out that name indicates distaste, so Castiel asks, “Do you not like him?”

“He’s—” Dean begins.

“It’s just that he’s rude toward us,” Sam interrupts quickly. “He also didn’t support the idea of Dean taking the throne, but that is all in the past. Isn’t it, Dean?” he finishes, looking pointedly at Dean.

Dean smiles, but Castiel sees that the smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yes,” Dean says, and he doesn’t even sound strained. Castiel supposes that as a monarch, Dean must be good at falsifying emotions. It’s a reminder that she shouldn’t just blindly believe whatever he says.

“And who is the last person?” Castiel prompts when Dean doesn’t continue.

“That is our last cousin, Gwen,” Dean answers. “She visits often.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, looking around the faces at the table and reminding herself of each person’s name as she goes. Then she looks at the other three tables that have been set up in the large banquet hall and asks, “Should I know any of the other nobles by name?”

“No,” Dean says. “You most likely won’t come into contact with them.”

Castiel nods and refocuses on the food in front of her.

“I actually don’t know too much about them, personally,” Dean admits. “They’re mostly just counts and countesses, and Sam helps decide on their affairs.”

“Because Dean is too lazy to do it himself,” Sam says.

“Lazy? Who do you think conquered enough people to almost double the size of our land?” Dean responds.

“What good would all that land be without proper management?” Sam retorts.

Dean laughs and claps his brother on the back, drawing some attention from the others at the table. “Yes, you’re right, Sammy. You’re always right.”

Castiel can’t hear the murmured response that Sam gives Dean, but she does see Sam shove his brother’s arm away from him.

“In all seriousness,” Dean says, turning back to Castiel, “Sam really does do a great job managing our empire. I heard you were smart—maybe you could help him out, if it interests you.”

Castiel smiles. “I can’t claim intelligence. I’ve only read a large number of books,” she says.

“We have a library full of books,” Dean says. “I have never liked reading, but if you like it, we could take a look after dinner.”

“I would enjoy that very much, Dean. Thank you.”

* * *

Dean pushes open a set of large double doors, and Castiel’s eyes widen at the numerous shelves of books. They are most certainly larger than the shelves that she has back at her estate, though they do not rival those in the royal Tarcaelian library.

“This is impressive,” she says, stepping inside. The ceiling above is decorated with painted angels, and she is surprised by the depictions—they seem to be Tarcaelian in style.

“Glad you like it,” Dean says, following a few steps behind her.

Castiel wanders down the first aisle and looks up at the multitude of volumes. She drags her fingertips lightly over the spines of some books. She recognizes some titles, but there are very many that she does not.

Footsteps from ahead capture her attention, and she looks over to see a woman coming toward her.

“You must be our new queen,” the woman says, and Castiel is surprised that she doesn’t even bother acknowledging Dean. But her lack of acknowledgement doesn’t seem to be an act of disrespect, and Dean isn’t concerned. The people of this land truly are strange.

“Yes,” Castiel answers.

“Well,” the woman says, smiling. “It’s nice to meet you, Highness.”

Castiel blinks. “Your accent…”

“You have a good ear, Highness. I moved here from Tarcaelius twenty years ago.”

“I suppose that explains the angels on the ceiling,” Castiel says.

The woman looks surprised. “You noticed.”

“What about them?” Dean asks.

The woman rolls her eyes, a gesture that would be of utmost impertinence in Tarcaelius but that is apparently tolerated here. “Dean, you don’t know anything,” she says.

Castiel expects some sort of punishment or gentle rebuke at the least, but when she glances at Dean, he’s smiling fondly. “Great. Thanks, Ellen. Now explain.”

“The angels on the ceiling are drawn in old Tarcaelian style—powerful warriors of Heaven,” the woman—Ellen—says. “Under the reign of King Charles, the ferocity of the angels was a representation of the strength of his armies. It was important enough to the king that he named his children—” Ellen stops suddenly, staring at Castiel. Then she lowers her gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry, milady.”

Castiel shakes her head. “It is all right,” she answers, but now she is thinking of her three missing brothers, and of the one who stayed with her. She wishes she could see them again. It’s an ache in her chest that won’t go away, hasn’t gone away in the years that they’ve been absent.

“Thanks, Ellen,” Dean says quietly, resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. She resists the urge to shy away from the touch and allows Dean to steer her out of the library.

She walks down the hall without thinking about where she’s going, hardly even registering Dean’s presence at her side. She’s the queen of a nation now, only second in power to the king, and if she wants to find someone, she should be able to.

But what if Michael, Lucifer, and Gabriel don’t want to be found? Or worse, what if they’ve _died?_

“Cas. _Cas_ —”

Castiel becomes aware of hands shaking her shoulders, and she looks up into a worried pair of green eyes. “Sorry,” she says.

“What? No, don’t apologize,” Dean says, shaking his head as though ridding himself of an annoyance. “I want to know what’s wrong with you.”

Castiel shakes her head. “I was just… thinking about my brothers. That’s all.”

“Your brothers,” Dean repeats. “What about them?”

Castiel looks up at Dean, not really understanding. Does Dean not know her family history? “I miss them,” Castiel says.

It’s not even a lie. They left so long ago, and she hasn’t heard anything of them since. Zachariah, the bastard, even had them declared dead. There had been empty casket funerals for them, and though Castiel wanted to skip them, Raphael convinced her to attend— _what if they really are gone, Elle? It’d be disrespectful to miss their funerals._

Castiel believes that they’re alive, believes that her brothers could not fall so easily, but it is difficult to maintain that belief when she has nothing but faith to rely on.

“I could invite them over,” Dean offers, pulling Castiel’s thoughts back to the present. It occurs to her that they’ve resumed their journey down the hall, and when she glances around, she notes that they are on the way back to Dean’s personal quarters.

“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel replies. It seems that Dean is sincere about this, and Castiel wonders how it’s possible that he doesn’t know anything about her. She had certainly tried to find out everything she could about him before coming.

“Are you sure about that?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods. “I have you,” she says. Dean cannot possibly serve as a substitute or a replacement for her missing family, but Castiel knows that as a proper wife, her husband should be the most important thing in her life.

Dean’s eyes soften at her words, and he takes her hand, pulling her to a stop. She turns to face him completely, and he says, “Family is important. If you’d like to see your brothers again, tell me.”

“I will,” Castiel says. She doesn’t know Dean well enough to ascertain his willingness to search for her brothers, and since he hasn’t even taken the time to learn about her background, it is safe to assume that it doesn’t matter to him.

They continue down the hall in silence.

Then a short man bursts from a side corridor and looks up and down the hall before spotting Dean and rushing over. “Oh good, you’re here,” he says.

“What is it, Chuck?” Dean asks, sounding impatient.

“Well, I had some questions about the uh, uh,” Chuck looks over and sees Castiel, seemingly only just taking notice of her, because his eyes widen in surprise. “Queen!” he blurts out.

Castiel looks at him, perplexed, and asks, “Are you all right?”

“What—yes. I’m fine,” he says quickly. With a sigh, he looks back at Dean. “I guess it can wait, if you’re with the queen.”

“You don’t have to delay on my behalf,” Castiel says.

“Actually, he does,” Dean contradicts. “I’ll go to your office in a few minutes. Just review your notes until I get there.”

“Well I—never mind. Bye, then,” Chuck says. He departs the way that he came, and Dean and Castiel stare after him for a moment before resuming their walk.

“If you only intended on escorting me back to your—”

“Our,” Dean corrects.

“— _our_ quarters,” Castiel emends, “you needn’t have bothered. I know the way.”

Dean smiles. “Maybe I wanted to.” After a pause, Dean says, “I’ve been meaning to ask you—are you interested in going down to the kitchens for a proper introduction to all the servants? I know Richard can be difficult at times.”

Castiel shakes her head. “I didn’t find him hard to handle at all,” she replies. “He was actually rather charming when I went down to make breakfast for you this morning.”

“That’s… abnormal,” Dean says.

They make a few turns before reaching Dean’s quarters—Castiel really should start thinking of them as her own, now that she is his wife.

Once inside the antechamber, Castiel pauses. “Speaking of proper introductions, I don’t think I ever had the opportunity to introduce my servants to you,” she says, moving toward the door on the right, where her servants’ quarters are. Dean’s servants live on the opposite side of the antechamber.

“No, I don’t think you did,” Dean agrees.

Castiel raps on the door, and it swings open promptly.

“M’lady,” Inias greets her with a smile.

“Tell the others to come out. I’d like to properly introduce all of you to your new king,” Castiel says.

“We could just go in,” Dean says from behind Castiel.

“No—it’d be inappropriate,” Castiel answers without thinking. She instantly wants to take it back, because it’s wrong to directly refuse a king, but Dean continues to surprise her—he only chuckles at the impertinent response.

Then Inias, Samandriel, Anna, and Meg are filing out of the servant’s quarters. They drop to their knees in unison and chorus, “Your Highness.”

Castiel looks up at Dean in time to see his eyes widen. “Uh, you really don’t have to do that,” he says. When they don’t move, he adds, “Get up.”

Castiel moves to stand beside Dean and introduces her servants, gesturing to them in turn. “This is Inias. He has been my guard for over four years, and he has protected me well. This is Samandriel. He has only served me for a few days—the length of time it took for me to travel here.”

“Why?” Dean asks.

“He originally served my cousin. Prince Balthazar sent him to me as a farewell gift,” Castiel says. She knows very well that she mustn’t lie to the king, but it won’t do to tell him—or anyone else, for that matter—about her cousin’s regard for her.

“Hmm,” Dean grunts. “And the girls?”

“Anna and Meg,” Castiel says. “Anna was a helper in the kitchens before I chose her.”

“Does that mean she can make the broth that you made this morning?” Dean asks.

Castiel smiles. “No, of course not. I told you that it was an old family recipe, did I not?” she replies.

“It was worth a try,” Dean says. Then he prompts, “What about Meg? Do you have anything special to say about her?”

Oh, Castiel could write a book about Meg, she’s sure. But what can she tell Dean? “She has been with me since I was very small,” Castiel says.

Meg is only two years older than Castiel, and she has looked after Castiel since they were only nine and seven. Castiel remembers running through the gardens at the castle, Meg chasing close behind her. Castiel had turned it into a game, but she knows now that Meg followed out of a sense of duty as well—any injuries Castiel suffered would have been considered Meg’s fault.

“Cas?” Dean says, hesitant, and Castiel realizes that she is supposed to be speaking.

“Sorry,” she says. “I was reminiscing.”

Dean smiles down at her. “It’s fine. I should probably go now. Chuck is still waiting.”

“Oh! I’d forgotten.”

“It isn’t anything urgent,” Dean says. “Chuck is the historian. He probably just has some questions about how the wedding should be recorded.” Dean pauses before asking, “Is there anything you would like the official records to say?”

Castiel shakes her head. “I leave it entirely up to you.”

“Okay, then. I will see you tonight.”

“Yes.”

Dean leans down, and Castiel closes her eyes as his lips brush over hers. Then he’s pulling away and leaving the antechamber.

As soon as the door falls shut behind him, Meg walks past Anna and shoves at Inias and Samandriel. “Get back inside,” she urges, before moving across the antechamber and opening the door to Dean’s—and Castiel’s—room.

Inias and Samandriel look at Castiel for confirmation. When she nods, they follow Meg’s order and return to the servants’ quarters. Castiel starts walking into her bedroom, noticing belatedly that Anna isn’t following her. She reaches a hand out for her friend, and Anna smiles and takes it.

The door closes abruptly when Castiel and Anna are both in the room, and then Meg is right in Castiel’s face, smiling widely. “ _Cas?_ ” she says, practically overflowing with glee.

“Yes, Cas,” Castiel says.

“Oh Elle, why do you sound so unhappy?”

“I’m not.”

Meg shakes her head. “I know you. You said it yourself—I’ve been looking after you since you were very small. I watched you grow up, Elle. I know you aren’t happy, so what’s wrong?”

“Aside from the obvious?” Anna says, frowning at Meg.

Meg sighs. “This is the best we could have hoped for,” she says. “Anna and I mingled with some of the other maids today, and it seems like the king is a much better person than I’d expected.”

“I _told_ you—” Anna begins.

“Yes, we’ve been over this already,” Meg interrupts. “What I wanted to say is that this… all of this really isn’t so bad, is it?”

“No,” Castiel says. “It’s not bad at all.”

“But you still aren’t happy,” Meg says.

“You can’t honestly expect me to be happy here,” Castiel says, moving across the room and taking a seat on the edge of her bed. “I loved my home. This… this isn’t my home.”

Meg and Anna both turn to keep Castiel in sight, and Meg steps closer. “But it is, Elle. It _is_ your home, now.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Castiel asks.

“Of course not,” Meg answers. “I… it’s just that one of us has to be the optimistic one, and if it isn’t you, then it has to be me.”

“Because you’re so optimistic on a regular basis,” Anna says sarcastically.

Meg turns to her. “That’s because Elle is usually fine, and I am allowed to be as snippy as I want.”

“Anna, Meg, please don’t. Not right now,” Castiel says.

Silence follows her words.

Then Meg says, “I just want to know that you’re all right.”

“I am,” Castiel says. “I am perfectly fine. And you’re right, Meg—things could certainly be worse. But I haven’t even been here for a full day yet, so there is plenty of time for it to get worse.”

“At least the king likes you,” Anna says.

“I have to agree with Anna,” Meg says. “And you know I don’t do that often.”

“I don’t know if that is a blessing or a curse,” Castiel says. “I’m not even sure if it’s true.”

“Why would it be a curse?” Anna asks. “To be loved by your husband—”

“It will be difficult if he feels strongly for me because I do not reciprocate,” Castiel says. “It’d be better if he and I were indifferent to one another.”

“Maybe it would be easier, but I don’t think it would be better,” Anna says.

“Of course it would be better,” Meg says. “Can you imagine having to fake emotions for someone else? I know I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

Anna seems to bite back a retort. “In my opinion, mutual indifference amounts to nothing. You would not have anything to fear from him, but you would not know any joy, either,” she says. “I think this will be good for you.”

“Let us hope that it is,” Castiel says.

* * *

They’ve been sitting together for the bigger part of an hour, mostly just recounting tales on the battlefield, when Dean decides to ask his knights’ opinions of his new queen.

“She’s lovely,” Garth says. “There is something elven about her.”

Gordon looks annoyed, but then, he’s always annoyed with Garth. “Elves don’t exist,” he says.

“Well, if they did, she would look like one of them,” Garth persists.

Before Gordon can answer, Victor says, “The queen really is beautiful. I like her. From where I was sitting I could hear some of your conversation, and she seems intelligent enough as well.”

“We already know that she’s smart,” Gordon says. “The fact that she wore black clothing to the wedding ceremony speaks for itself, don’t you think? I don’t think her wit is something to take lightly. She could very well be a spy for King Zachariah.”

Dean automatically discounts this theory as ridiculous, but he keeps silent, letting the other knights speak up for him.

“I think her soul is too kind for that,” Garth says.

“You haven’t even spoken to her before. How could you _possibly_ be familiar with her soul?” Gordon sneers.

“Eyes are windows to the soul,” Garth says, unruffled by Gordon’s attitude. “Our queen has a more impassive exterior, but inside, she is kind and sad.”

“Sad?” Dean says despite himself. “Why would she be sad?”

“She’s been separated from her home. How could she not be sad?” Garth counters, and Dean supposes that it makes sense. He hadn’t thought about it that way.

“I’ve interrogated many people who looked innocent and kind,” Gordon says. “You cannot make judgments based on appearance alone. The quietest and meekest can turn out to be the most volatile and dangerous.”

Dean glances at Caleb. “What is your opinion?”

“I agree that the choice to wear black is strange, but to suspect that our queen is a spy—I believe that is thinking too much of it. After all, she is only a woman,” Caleb says.

Garth bristles at this. “What, do you not think a woman could be a good spy? Sexist muttonheads like you wouldn’t suspect her at all.”

“I didn’t mean—” Caleb starts.

“I thought you were arguing that the queen could _not_ be a spy,” Gordon interrupts, frowning at Garth.

“Well, I am. But not for _that_ reason,” Garth says.

“I still think it’d be best for you to take precautions, Dean,” Gordon says.

Victor, who’s remained uncharacteristically quiet for most of the discussion, speaks up. “Listen to Gordon if you wish, but I consider myself a reasonably skilled judge of character, and I honestly did not find fault in our new queen.”

The knights look at Dean, who says, “I trust my wife. But I will take Gordon’s words into consideration.”

* * *

An hour or two later, Dean retires to his quarters.

When he enters the antechamber, Jo is waiting for him. “The queen went to sleep some time ago,” she reports. “She was going to wait for you, but I told her not to worry.”

Dean smiles. “Thanks, Jo. You can go to bed—it’s late.”

Jo nods and goes to the left, disappearing through the door to the servants’ quarters. Dean’s been inside once, though he hadn’t entered Jo’s room—he’d gone in to visit Ash while he was injured.

Shaking the thoughts away, Dean pushes open the door to his bedchamber and notes that all the candles have been put out except the two at his desk. After shutting the door, Dean crosses the room to put out the candles. When he reaches his desk, he pauses.

A book is lying open, and Dean recognizes it as one of Chuck’s recently completed books, _A History of Laurentia_. It is open to the last page of the history of the Winchester clan, and Dean shakes his head, remembering how uncomfortable it had been for him to read through that when it was time to approve the material.

His maternal grandfather, Samuel, had been the king a long time ago, but his reign had been tyrannical. He cared deeply about his family and the safety of his country, but he ruled with an iron fist and did not hear the nobles’ complaints. Father had handled his subjects with much more care than Grandpa had, especially when Mother was still around.

Dean looks away from the book, but all he can see in his mind is the memory of Mother, gradually becoming frailer and frailer as the days went by, and Father suffering beside her, losing more and more of himself as she slipped further away.

With a sigh, Dean snuffs out the candles and moves across the silent bedroom, trying to put these thoughts out of his head.

Moonlight filters into the room from a few small windows placed high up on the walls—shades have been drawn over the lower ones—and Dean sees that Cas is lying on her side, facing him. He stands by the bed and just looks at her for a moment. Her eyes are closed, long lashes resting on her cheeks. Her lips are parted slightly, and Dean is momentarily taken by the urge to rouse her with a long, sloppy kiss.

But he decides that it’d be better to let her rest, so he turns away and strips down to his trousers—he usually sleeps in the nude when he’s within the safety of the castle walls, but he suspects that it would make Cas uncomfortable—before crawling under the covers. Cas shifts a little but doesn’t wake, and Dean leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

“G’night, Cas,” he murmurs.


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel wakes up slowly, warm and comfortable. She arches her back, stretching herself out, and comes into contact with a warm body right behind her. She freezes, instantly alert, and realizes that there is a pair of arms—Dean’s—around her middle. Castiel closes her eyes again, hoping irrationally that this is just a dream, but shutting her eyes only makes her more aware of all the points of contact between them, of just how close Dean is to her, his breaths hot on the back of her neck.

She carefully takes hold of his right arm to pull it away from her, but as soon as she exerts force, his arms tighten around her, pulling her flush against him, and she feels hardness pressing against her bottom.

Castiel knows that it’s Dean’s right to take what he wants from her, but it’s early in the morning, and her brain might not be in complete control over her actions. She pries at his arms, but it seems that her struggle provokes him into action, and he starts to move.

“Dean,” she says. “Dean, _wake up_.”

His hips are shifting, grinding against her, but then his motions stop abruptly, and Castiel is relieved.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, voice hoarse from sleep. “I’m sorry,” he adds, but he doesn’t release her.

Castiel swallows hard, grateful that he’s behind her and cannot see her expression. “It’s your right,” she manages, and Dean lets out a tired sigh.

“No—Cas, I told you I wouldn’t force you,” he says. “If you don’t want it, we won’t do it.”

Castiel is silent for a long moment, trying to decide what to say next, whether she should just offer herself up now or push her luck. Feeling impulsive, she asks, “What if… what if I never want to?”

After a beat, during which Castiel wishes she hadn’t said anything, Dean responds, “Is that a possibility?”

“I—no. No, I was just wondering,” Castiel says, but Dean pulls at her shoulder, backing up a little so that she can turn around to face him. Castiel keeps her eyes lowered, and she knows it’s an unsubtle evasion.

“Don’t lie to me, Cas. Tell me the truth.”

“I am.”

Dean sighs, and Castiel peeks up at him to gauge his reaction, but he only looks guarded. “If that were really the case, it’d be fine,” he finally says. “Sam and Adam could take the throne after me, and if not them, I’m sure that at least one of them would have children.”

Castiel really can’t tell how much he means this—after a few years as king, it makes sense that he would know how to make his face impassive, difficult to read.

Then Dean presses a light kiss to her forehead. “I have some nobles to meet with, and then I’m joining my knights for a sparring session,” he says.

“Sparring,” Castiel repeats.

Dean shifts away from her and gets out of bed. “Yes. It’s been some time since we were all gathered here in the capital for a significant length of time,” he answers as he pulls on a tunic and begins to tuck it into his trousers. Castiel sits up, but Dean gestures for her to lie back down. “Take as much rest as you like. I’ll have the kitchens send up some breakfast for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel says. “If I’m hungry, I can have Anna make something for me.”

Dean smiles as he shrugs his vest on, but his expression is impersonal—cold, even—and Castiel represses the urge to shiver. “If it suits you,” he says.

“Thank you, then,” Castiel says, forcing a smile.

It seems she is better than Dean at faking emotions, because his eyes are warmer when they land on her—or perhaps he is the master of deception between them, fooling her even now. After he finishes the buttons on his vest, he leans down and pulls Castiel into a kiss.

“Would you mind getting Meg and Anna for me?” Castiel asks when he pulls away.

“Sure,” Dean says, and then he heads for the door.

Castiel gets out of bed and moves over to a small vanity that had been moved into the room in the afternoon, yesterday. She takes a seat in front of the mirror and combs her fingers through her hair. It’s almost long enough to reach her waist now, longer than she’s ever kept it, and she wonders whether or not she should have it cut.

There’s a rap on the door, and Castiel calls, “Come in!”

Anna and Meg enter the room and walk over to her together. “Good morning,” Meg says.

“Did you sleep well?” Anna asks.

“Quite well,” Castiel answers, looking to her left as Anna pulls open a large wardrobe. It had been mostly empty when Castiel moved in. Now, even though it already holds the vast majority of gowns that Castiel owns, it is still only half full.

“Which dress would you like to wear today?” Anna asks, turning to look at Castiel.

“I have no preference. You choose,” Castiel replies.

Meg steps behind Castiel and fusses over her hair for a moment. “Don’t you think it’s about time we trimmed your hair?”

“I was just considering it,” Castiel answers.

“Maybe you should ask the king’s opinion,” Meg suggests, moving past Anna and selecting a dress from the wardrobe. It is one of Castiel’s favorite dresses—it’s a light tan color and a little old, but the material is soft and comfortable with its years of wear.

“How long Elle keeps her hair is her own choice,” Anna says.

Castiel gets to her feet. “It’s all right, Anna,” she says as Meg holds the dress up for her. Castiel steps into the gown and pulls it up over her chemise before turning around to let Meg lace up the back. “Dean is my husband now, and I should know what he likes.”

“I’m sure he would be fine with whatever you wanted,” Anna says.

“Maybe, but it is still best to find out his preference,” Castiel says. “I will keep it as it is, for now.”

Meg finishes lacing up the dress, and Castiel sits back down in front of her mirror.

“I’ll fix your hair today,” Anna volunteers, picking up a brush and moving behind Castiel’s chair. “Is there any style you’d like?”

Castiel shakes her head. “Not particularly. I leave it up to you, Anna.”

She smiles, but she still feels concerned. She may have said too much to Dean, pushed too far. It is already unheard of for a newlywed royal couple to delay the consummation of their marriage for a night or two, let alone to delay it indefinitely.

“Elle?” Meg says, and Castiel glances at her servant out of the corner of her eye. “What troubles you?”

“I never could hide things from you, Meg, could I?” Castiel says.

“No, Elle. What’s wrong?”

The less people who know, the better. But these are Castiel’s closest friends, and the only people in whom she can confide. Perhaps Anna is less familiar to her than Meg, but Castiel would like to believe that Anna is loyal to her.

“Elle?” Anna says, pausing mid-stroke.

“There is something I’d like to tell you, but it would probably be better if I kept it to myself,” Castiel says.

“Is it about the king?” Meg asks.

“Yes.”

In the silence that follows, Anna goes back to brushing Castiel’s hair. In the mirror, Castiel can see Meg looking down, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

Finally, Meg says, “Elle, you know you could tell us anything. We wouldn’t say a word to anyone else. I would like to be able to help you.”

“Yes,” Anna agrees, leaning forward to set the brush back down on the vanity. “I’d like to think our advice could be useful to you.” After a pause, she says, “A braid, perhaps?”

It takes Castiel a moment to realize that Anna is asking about her hair. “Yes, that’s fine,” she answers. She deliberates just a little longer before saying, “Meg, make sure the door is closed and locked.”

As Meg’s footsteps head toward the door, Castiel thinks about what she should say. “It’s locked,” Meg reports, and Castiel sees her reflection return to the mirror. “We can speak freely.”

“I fear I may have pushed my luck too far,” Castiel says. Anna keeps working on her braid, and Castiel continues, “Dean and I have not consummated our marriage yet.”

Anna accidentally tugs on Castiel’s hair, making her wince. “Sorry,” Anna hurries to say, fingers returning to their work mechanically. “But I do believe I told you so,” she adds. “I told you that he wouldn’t force himself on you if you didn’t want him.”

Ignoring Anna’s comment, Meg asks, “Why haven’t you?”

“Well, it’s obvious,” Anna says. “Because Elle didn’t want to.”

Meg frowns. “Is this true, Elle?”

“Yes.”

Anna is practically beaming. “I _told_ you that the king was a good man,” she says.

But Meg looks troubled. “How long can it go on, though?” she asks. “You can’t honestly expect him to abstain forever.”

“I know,” Castiel says. “I may have… hinted that I would never want him, this morning.”

“Why on _earth_ would you do _that?_ ” Meg asks, aghast.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, shaking her head. “I just… I had to know how he would react.”

“What did he say, then?” Anna asks, tying off the end of the braid and stepping back.

“He said that it’d be all right, but I couldn’t tell how sincere he was,” Castiel replies. “He sounded displeased.”

“Of course he’d be displeased,” Meg says. “Every man wants to bed his wife.”

“But the fact that he is willing to abstain must count for something,” Anna says.

“It means that he has more patience than I’d expected. Nothing more,” Meg says.

Anna shakes her head. “See, you’re wrong about that. He may be the king, but he is still bound by the agreement signed between the two lands. Not consummating the marriage makes it unofficial, which means he’s risking being caught in violation of the agreement in order to please Elle.”

Meg narrows her eyes at Anna. “You sound like you know an awful lot about this,” she says.

Anna’s cheeks redden. “I used to talk to Joshua a lot.”

This is certainly possible, Castiel decides. Before Father disappeared and their life fell apart, Joshua was one of his close advisors. After everything, Joshua became a servant at the estate, but he was deemed trustworthy enough to manage affairs until Raphael was able to assume control—Raphael had only been a boy of fourteen at the time. When he was relieved of his duties, Joshua spent most of his time tending to the gardens, so it is plausible that he and Anna spent time together.

“So what are you going to do?” Meg asks, drawing Castiel’s attention back to the present.

“I honestly don’t know,” Castiel says. She gets to her feet and turns around to look directly at her friends. “Should I just offer myself tonight? If it cannot be held off indefinitely, I might as well face it now.”

“I think that is your best option,” Meg says.

“Or you could wait and make him woo you,” Anna says, smiling.

“What, you would have the king _woo_ his own _wife?_ ” Meg says, aiming an incredulous look at Anna.

“Why not?”

Castiel speaks before Meg can. “If anyone else were to find out, there would be consequences.” She looks between Anna and Meg and says, “I know that it is risky, but I want to test his patience.”

“Are you _mad?_ ” Meg says. “Elle, you mustn’t.”

“I know I shouldn’t,” Castiel says. “But is it wrong to want a choice, a say in whether or not my body is used?”

“Of course not,” Anna says.

“But he is the king, and you are his wife,” Meg, ever the voice of reason, says. “Choice isn’t part of your life anymore. At least, not in this matter. I want you to be happy, Elle, more than almost anything. But one thing I do want more is for you to stay alive. I made a promise to your brother to keep you safe, so—”

“When did you do that?” Castiel interrupts. She and Meg were seldom apart from one another during their last days at Tarcaelius, and she doesn’t recall Raphael soliciting any attention from Meg.

“He sent for me the night before our departure, after you’d gone to bed,” Meg answers.

Castiel nods because this makes sense, but she catches a flicker in Anna’s expression. It passes too quickly for her to identify, but she files it away to be examined later.

“It’s good to know that he wanted me to be safe,” she says. Raphael does not often express affection, so despite how indirect it is, Castiel appreciates the thought.

“So you mustn’t be brash,” Meg says, returning to the topic at hand.

“No, but she doesn’t have to be docile and obedient either,” Anna says. “I—”

“Why are you so intent on encouraging dissent?” Meg asks, turning toward Anna. “If you know so much about politics—if you talked to Joshua at all—you would know how fragile relations are between Tarcaelius and Laurentia, and you would realize that Elle’s position here is precarious.”

“Meg, stop. Please,” Castiel says.

Meg looks at the ground. “I’ll make your breakfast.”

“No, let me,” Anna says. “I have more experience in the kitchens.”

“All the more reason to let me go. I need more practice,” Meg insists. She doesn’t wait for a response before turning and exiting the room.

“Don’t take her words to heart,” Castiel says to Anna when Meg has gone. “She worries about me.”

“I understand,” Anna says.

Castiel is silent for a moment, wondering how to bring up Anna’s strange reaction from before without spooking her. If Anna didn’t say anything, it’s clear that whatever she thought, she didn’t want either Castiel or Meg to know.

“If there’s nothing else…” Anna begins.

“Wait just one moment,” Castiel says. “Do you have anything to say to me about Meg?”

When Anna looks up at Castiel, it seems like she has no idea what Castiel is talking about. “Nothing that I can think of,” she says.

“Are you sure? When Meg mentioned her promise to Raphael, you reacted strangely.”

“Oh! No, it’s nothing about Meg,” Anna replies, but now she is avoiding Castiel’s eyes, clearly hiding something.

“If it’s not about Meg, then what is it about?” Castiel asks. Anna doesn’t reply, so Castiel prompts, “Was Meg lying to me? Did she not make that promise to Raphael?”

Anna looks up quickly, shaking her head. “No—no, she wasn’t lying. I remember lying awake that night because I’d just been moved into your quarters, and I couldn’t sleep. Meg was indeed summoned by Raphael. They spoke just outside our chambers, but I could not hear them. It was only for a few minutes. I believe Meg.”

“Yes. I do, too,” Castiel says. “So what is it that troubles you? Is it to do with Raphael?”

“I really shouldn’t say,” Anna says softly. “I could be wrong, and I… it would be bad if you were to believe me, but it all turned out to be nothing.”

Castiel frowns. “Anna, just tell me. You can’t speak of a secret like this without revealing it to me. Now, is it to do with my brother?”

“Yes,” Anna admits.

“Tell me,” Castiel says.

Finally, Anna says, “I… I believe that your brother may have been the one to suggest your betrothal to the King of Laurentia.”

“What? No, that’s impossible,” Castiel says, shaking her head. “Why do you think this?”

“The day after we spoke for the first time, it was my turn to deliver supper to Lord Raphael,” Anna says. “While I was still outside his chambers, I heard voices inside. The king sounded happy, like he was praising your brother. And I distinctly heard him saying that your brother had made an excellent suggestion, and that his efforts and sacrifice would not go unrewarded.”

“But did either of them ever mention my name?” Castiel asks.

“No. But what else could Lord Raphael have been sacrificing? I could only think of you.”

“I… I don’t understand what he could possibly have to gain from this, though,” Castiel says. “Raphael has never been interested in the king’s favor because he knows he has no chance at the crown—Uriel is already crown prince, and even if my uncle were to lose confidence in Uriel, Balthazar would still come before my brother.”

“Well,” Anna says carefully, “as I said before, I could be wrong.”

“I suppose you could,” Castiel says absently, her mind still fixed on her brother. If it’s true that he suggested her marriage… what could have prompted that decision? He must have had some incentive.

“I should not have said anything,” Anna says, apologetic, and Castiel shakes her head, stepping over to her maid.

“No, Anna. You did right by telling me this. Raphael admitted that he’d known about the engagement ahead of time, but he said nothing about the inception of the plan,” Castiel says. “But at this point, I suppose it doesn’t matter. It is too late for me to return to Tarcaelius, at any rate.”

Anna smiles sadly. “At least the people here have been kind, so far.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “Thank you, Anna. You may leave now.”

Anna makes a small bow before turning to leave. Castiel watches as she walks away, so she sees when Anna pauses and turns back around.

“Oh, there’s something I forgot to tell you,” Anna says. “Inias wants to know whether or not you’d like him to return the book you borrowed from Prince Sam yesterday.”

“No need,” Castiel answers. “I intend to take it back myself, after breakfast.”

“I will let him know, then,” Anna says before exiting the room.

Castiel stares at the closed door for a moment before moving to Dean’s desk and taking a seat. She closes the heavy tome that lies on its surface and sighs.

Though she and Raphael could never have been described as close, their relationship has been civil, mildly affectionate at least, and Castiel cannot imagine any situation that would lead to Raphael’s desire to give her away.

* * *

After a breakfast of warm bread and light cheese, Castiel leaves her quarters with Sam’s history book in her arms. Meg had offered to accompany her—Anna was off doing the laundry that had accumulated on their journey here—but Castiel chose to give her friend the rest of the morning off instead.

It takes her some time to reach Sam’s chambers. Yesterday, Dean’s maid, Jo, had shown Castiel, Meg, and Anna around the castle to help them familiarize themselves with their new home. The king’s quarters are in the center of the building, and Sam and Adam’s rooms are to the east and west, respectively.

Upon reaching a set of large double doors, Castiel knocks twice and waits. One door opens a crack, and Sam’s maid—Ruby, Castiel recalls—appears in the opening. “My lady,” she says, smiling unpleasantly.

“I’d like to return this to Sam,” Castiel says. Ruby reaches for the book, but Castiel pulls it in, holding it closer to her chest. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to speak with him as well.”

Ruby frowns at Castiel but says, “Come in, then. I’ll announce your arrival.”

She steps out of the way, and Castiel enters the antechamber. It is laid out differently from Dean’s in that it has four doors instead of three. The two on the sides should lead into servants’ quarters, and one of the two doors on the opposite wall must open into Sam’s bedroom. The final door is the one through which Ruby disappears.

A moment later, the door opens again, and Sam himself emerges, followed closely by his maid. “Castiel,” he says, smiling. “I was sure you were joking when you said that you’d like to lend a hand.”

“Well. I’m interested in seeing how the country is run, but I was mostly just intending to return your book,” Castiel replies, holding out the thick volume for him to take. “I only read the portion pertaining to your immediate family,” she explains when he looks up from the book to raise his eyebrows at her.

“Come on in,” Sam says, walking back into the room from which he’d come.

Castiel follows him inside, and Ruby closes the door for her, leaving her alone with Sam. She looks up to see Sam placing the book on a shelf. “I take it this is your… study?” she asks.

“Yes. Please, have a seat,” Sam says, gesturing to a chair in front of a large desk.

As Castiel sits down, Sam moves around the desk to sit behind it. “You seem to have a miniature library of your own in this room,” Castiel comments, looking around at the shelves of books that line the walls.

“It is convenient to have a certain selection of reference material readily available,” Sam responds. “So, what did you want to know?”

“I’m curious. How is it that you can handle most of the affairs of the land without taking the allegiance of the people from your brother?” Castiel asks. “It seems only reasonable that subjects would be more loyal to the one who listens to their plight.”

Sam smiles. “It does not exactly work the way you seem to think it does,” he says. “The reports and complaints sent up by the nobles come straight to me, and I am the one who sorts through them and suggests a course of action. However, Dean is the one who meets with the nobles and provides them with the solutions.”

“I see,” Castiel says. “Then… do you seek no credit from the people?”

“I don’t need any credit. All I want is for my brother’s reign to remain secure.”

“You truly are selfless,” Castiel decides—in Sam’s position, it would be far too easy to manipulate the nobles into thinking that Dean is an unworthy leader. The fact that Sam is not on the throne already is telling in itself.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sam responds. “Dean and I are very close—always have been. His gain is my gain. He may hold the title of king, but I am not lesser than he is.”

“Such words could be construed as treason in Tarcaelius.”

“Then I am grateful to be in Laurentia,” Sam says with another smile. After a pause, he asks, “So, since you’re interested in such matters, allow me to explain a situation to you that has recently been brought to my attention.”

“Please do.”

“There is a group of men and women that rides through the fields in the west, destroying crops and terrorizing the farmers and villagers that live there. They call themselves the Demons. It is unknown just how much damage they have done to the countryside, but their numbers seem to grow each time I hear of them, and I worry about the safety of our people,” Sam says.

“Well, why don’t we send soldiers to eradicate them?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Sam says.

Castiel considers this. Bandits are pillaging villages and destroying farms—there is not much that could complicate a matter as simple as this. So she theorizes, “You suspect that these self-proclaimed Demons are linked to an outside nation.”

Sam looks impressed. “Victor mentioned something about you seeming smart, but I don’t think I really understood what he was trying to say until this moment.”

Castiel ducks her head shyly. “It is nothing. I enjoyed reading very much in my leisure. My brother always said that I read far more than a proper lady should.”

Sam’s eyes soften at the mention of her brother, and he says, “I’m sorry. It must have been hard for you, losing so much so early.”

“For you as well,” Castiel answers, because she knows that both of Sam’s parents are dead. She wonders just how much Sam knows about her own history and decides that no matter how much he actually knows, he is certainly more aware of her past than Dean is. Not for the first time, she wonders how different things would be if Sam were king, if she were wed to him instead of his brother.

Before Castiel’s thoughts can wander further in that vein, Sam asks, “What would you do about the Demons, if it were your decision?”

Castiel shakes her head. “It isn’t my place to say,” she says demurely.

“I insist.”

“In that case…” Castiel chews her bottom lip as she thinks, “…I would suggest sending one of the king’s lesser-known knights to join the bandits, discover their leader and their hidden allegiance.”

Sam nods his approval. “Not bad. That is just the solution Dean and I agreed upon.”

“It does appear to be the most logical course of action,” Castiel says, pleased that she arrived at the correct conclusion.

“So you used logic, then,” Sam says. “You’ve had no training, whatsoever.”

Castiel shakes her head. She hardly had the opportunity to discuss politics when she was in Tarcaelius because it wasn’t a woman’s place to meddle in the affairs of men, but she used to listen in on discussions whenever they took place near her—it wasn’t difficult to eavesdrop because men generally assumed that women couldn’t understand the issues at hand, though Raphael made it a point to avoid Castiel, because he knew better. It’s refreshing, she thinks, to be able to discuss political matters openly like this—to be an active participant in the conversation, rather than a listener in the shadows.

“You have good instincts, then—I’m impressed,” Sam says.

“Thank you.”

After a brief pause, Sam says, “I have some more scenarios, some real and some fabricated. Would you like to hear them? We could test how far instinct could get you if you had the power to rule the kingdom as you saw fit.”

“Yes, I would like that very much,” Castiel says with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Before you say anything about Sam/Cas, that is definitely not happening in this fic, beyond Cas's spur-of-the-moment thoughts. (And I think the last of them happens in this very chapter.)
> 
> Oh, and I'm sorry this chapter turned out to be a bit of a filler. There are maybe like two or three key details that will matter later, but.. yeah, sorry anyway. On an unrelated note, I'm actually really anxious about the next chapter, ugh x.x I honestly cannot remember the last time I was so anxious about posting a chapter of any fic.


	5. Chapter 5

As Dean leaves the throne room, he’s startled by the unexpected presence of his little brother just outside the door. “What do you want?” he asks, frowning.

“Just to speak with you,” Sam answers.

“If it’s to do with any of the nobles I met today, it’s too late, and I’m not taking back any of the orders I gave out,” Dean says tiredly.

“No, it’s nothing to do with them,” Sam says, and Dean can’t help but feel relieved.

“Okay, then. What did you want to talk about? Andy already brought me my meeting schedule for tomorrow,” Dean says.

“Yes, I know. It’s about Castiel.”

Dean frowns. “What about her?”

“She came in to talk to me today.”

“Why?”

“You remember telling her that she was free to help me out, don’t you?”

“Oh. She took that offer?” Dean asks, surprised, and Sam nods. “How was she? I can’t imagine her knowing much.”

Sam looks up and down the hall before pushing his way into the throne room. Dean follows him inside. Ash looks up from where he’s clearing goblets from small tables placed beside the chairs on either side of the room—Baron Turner was close to Father and Bobby at some point in the past, so it was only right that Dean receive him and his wife well.

“Fellas,” Ash says in acknowledgement.

Sam looks at Dean pointedly, and Dean sighs. “Ash, you can go. I’ll have someone else clean this up.”

“Everything okay?” Ash says, one eyebrow raised as he sets the goblets back down on the nearest table.

“Yes, everything is fine. Sam’s being a little particular right now,” Dean answers.

Sam gives Dean an unimpressed look and waits until Ash has left the room before speaking. “This is probably just me thinking too much, but I’m worried about Castiel.”

“Worried how? Is she in danger?”

“No. No, she’s perfectly safe here. What I’m worried about is whether or not _we’re_ safe while she’s here,” Sam says.

And that… that doesn’t make sense. “What did she say to get you so worried?”

“She’s just… I’d heard that she was intelligent, but I’d assumed that that just meant she’d read many novels, that she was actually literate, unlike most noblewomen of… well, anywhere. I didn’t think she’d understand so much about politics. I told her about the uprisings in Morara, and she came to the same conclusion that I did within minutes of hearing the situation.”

“That wasn’t exactly something difficult to figure out,” Dean says—he remembers hearing about the uprisings, and the first thing he’d done, without even having to consult Sam, was send Ronald out to infiltrate the rebels. Ronald is one of Dean’s knights, not as well-known as the big four, and thus harder for the Demons to recognize as one of the king’s men.

“I know,” Sam says. “So I decided to test her a little. I gave her some exercises in strategy that I used to test our generals last year, and she is surprisingly quick at reaching the correct solutions for successful military campaigns, too. I have a hard time believing that she is who she says she is, to be honest. Women of the royal family aren’t supposed to be that well-informed or well-trained, especially in Tarcaelius.”

“And this makes you think she’s what, a spy?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Have you been talking to Gordon?”

“No—does he suspect it, too?”

“He might’ve brought it up when we met last night.”

“What was his reason?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. “I put it out of my mind because I didn’t think it was important.”

“You trust her, then.”

“Well, don’t you think that she’d be a little more careful about showing how smart she is, if she really were a spy?” Dean reasons.

“She could also be planning to hide in plain sight. Acting like she has nothing to hide would make us less likely to suspect her,” Sam counters, and if they continue in this vein, they could probably go all day.

“I just don’t think she’s capable of hurting anyone,” Dean says—that’s what his gut tells him, and he trusts his instincts.

“If she’s just here to gather intelligence, she wouldn’t have to physically hurt anyone herself,” Sam reasons. Dean opens his mouth to speak, but Sam holds out a hand to stop him. “Dean, I know what you’re going to say, and I’m asking you to just listen to me. I’m not accusing her of anything. I just want you to stay alert. I’m going to be paying attention, but you’ll be around her more than I will.”

Dean frowns at his brother. “Fine. But I stand by my judgment.”

Sam eyes Dean critically and asks, “Is this really happening?”

“What are you talking about?”

Sam smiles, but he doesn’t look happy at all. “For your sake, I hope I’m wrong about her.”

Dean blinks. “I repeat, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Sam says, shaking his head.

“No. You can’t say something as cryptic as that and expect me to just let it go.”

“I… well, I’d expected it to happen eventually, but I never imagined it would happen so fast,” Sam says.

“Can you stop speaking in riddles, Sam? You expected _what_ would happen?”

“That someone would steal your heart.”

Dean recoils, eyeing Sam warily. “You’re wrong,” he says. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.”

“You can deny it all you want, but I know you, Dean. I know you, and you wouldn’t be so intent on defending her innocence if you didn’t—”

“I feel nothing more than respect for her,” Dean interrupts. “I haven’t even bedded her yet.”

Sam’s eyes widen, and Dean blinks, startled, because that thought was not supposed to have come out of his mouth. “Dean…” Sam says cautiously, “does anyone else know of this?”

“It’s not likely.”

“Dean, this could be used as an excuse to go to war. You have to—”

“How? As long as no one finds out—”

“But how long do you expect this to continue? Don’t you think people will notice if Castiel never gets pregnant?”

“It’s our life. Outsiders—”

“Zachariah made it sound like he was loath to part with her. Treating her this way would be considered an insult, Dean,” Sam says.

“But Zachariah doesn’t even want to go to war, so I don’t see how this is an issue,” Dean argues. “And besides, it’s mutual,” he adds, even though he knows that their individual feelings don’t matter when it comes to politics.

Sam opens his mouth, pauses, and closes it. Then he shakes his head again and says, “Is it?”

“Yeah. She doesn’t—”

“I’m not talking about _her_ , Dean. I’m talking about you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t force her,” Dean says.

“I hardly think force would be necessary. Castiel is a smart— _very_ smart—girl. I’m certain she is perfectly willing to—”

“Willing and wanting aren’t the same thing.”

Sam stares at Dean, and Dean meets his gaze readily. “And you say you feel ‘nothing but respect’ for her,” Sam finally says.

“Because I do,” Dean says, ignoring the skeptical look his brother sends his way. “So you want me to be careful around Cas. Is that all?”

“Yes, that was all,” Sam says. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Dean exits the throne room swiftly and heads toward the courtyard near his chambers. It’s late, but he doesn’t think he can return to his room and speak calmly with Cas right now.

As much as Dean wants to deny it, there was some truth in Sam’s assertions, and he needs to reevaluate his feelings concerning his new wife. He honestly cannot remember the last time he trusted someone so completely, so quickly. It’s almost frightening, because Dean has never been quick to trust, and now he thinks he understands the look of concern he’d seen on Sam’s face. What’s even more troubling is the fact that Dean himself hadn’t even noticed.

As he steps out into the cool night air, a white messenger dove flies over his head on its way out of the courtyard, and Dean immediately whips his head in the opposite direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sender. But the man isn’t even trying to hide, staring wide-eyed at Dean like he’s never seen him before, and it takes Dean a moment to realize why that face is so foreign to him in his own castle.

“Samandriel,” he says, stepping toward the slim man and looking him over more carefully.

He seems harmless enough, awkwardly tall with thin, gangly limbs and an air of innocence about his face. But appearances can be deceiving, and sending a message in the dead of night is certainly suspicious behavior.

“Sire,” Samandriel says, head bowed respectfully. He seems to shrink as Dean gets closer, but he doesn’t drop to his knees.

“What are you doing out here?” Dean asks.

“Nothing,” Samandriel replies, and his voice is surprisingly steady.

“I know you were the one who sent that bird. Where is it going, and what message is it taking with it?”

“It was just a letter to my family,” Samandriel says, cheeks reddening. “I knew that they would be worried about me, so before I left, I promised to send word.”

“Is that so?” Dean says. Samandriel nods mutely. “Then am I to believe that your family is permitted to use the white doves of the royal family?”

Samandriel’s eyes widen, and it’s apparent that he hadn’t taken into account the fact that Dean would recognize the species of bird. “It—it wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“I could have you executed for plotting against the crown, if it pleased me,” Dean says severely, cutting off the servant’s stuttering. “Tell me the truth now, and I might spare you.”

“It—it was a message to my former master, sire,” Samandriel says.

“Your former master,” Dean echoes, thinking back. “Cas’s cousin, the prince?”

“Yes, Prince Balthazar,” Samandriel confirms.

“What was the content of this message, and why did you send it?” Dean asks. Samandriel doesn’t respond, only shuffles his feet and keeps his head lowered, and Dean snaps, “Answer me!”

Samandriel flinches before responding, “My master cares deeply for Lady Castiel—”

“ _Queen_ Castiel,” Dean corrects, and Samandriel hurries to fix his mistake—

“— _Queen_ Castiel, and he wishes to know that she is well.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That Her Highness is in excellent health, and that she was received well,” Samandriel reports.

“Do you expect a response from your master?”

“No. Perhaps the messenger birds of Laurentia are better trained, but ours only know the way home.”

“How am I to now that you haven’t stolen one of our birds and sent it to your master by horse, to allow him to respond?”

“I would never steal,” Samandriel insists, looking up at Dean.

“You say that as though I should simply take your word that you are a noble man.”

“I believe myself not to be noble, but honest and loyal.”

“If your motives are so pure, then why are you sending this message in the dead of night?” Dean asks.

“My master does not wish Her Highness to learn of his concern for her.”

Dean frowns. “Why not? Concern for a family member is natural, not something to be ashamed of,” he says. Unless there is more to the man’s concern than simple filial devotion. Dean tries to discard this thought, but now that the seed has been planted, he can’t seem to rid his mind of it.

“He does not want to trouble Her Highness,” Samandriel says quietly, and Dean can’t help but think that a man asking after his cousin’s health should be no cause for a lady’s concern, not unless there’s something to hide.

Despite these thoughts, Dean manages to smile. “Well, I am impressed by the depth of your former master’s love for his cousin,” he says. “It mustn’t have been easy for him, deciding to part with you.” Samandriel only nods, and Dean says, “Do you think Cas feels homesick?”

Samandriel looks startled. “I would not presume to know how she feels,” he says.

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” Dean replies. “I will send out a rider to Tarcaelius tomorrow and extend an invitation for Cas’s family to visit her,” he decides aloud.

“That is most generous of you, sire.”

“Don’t tell Cas,” Dean says, as a means of testing Samandriel’s true loyalties. If they lie with Cas, he’ll most likely tell her what happened tonight—he could even have been acting under her orders. If they lie with Balthazar, it’s more likely that he’ll keep quiet. Dean’s willing to bet it will be the latter. “I’d like it to be a surprise.”

Samandriel nods. “Of course, sire.”

“That will be all, then,” Dean says. “And in the future, if you hope to escape detection, I suggest you try to be more careful.”

Samandriel nods again and leaves the courtyard quickly.

Dean watches his retreating form until it disappears through the door leading back inside, and then he turns away and looks up at the dark sky.

Samandriel was given to Cas as a goodbye present, he remembers her saying. A goodbye present from a cousin who cares about her deeply, cares about her enough that he apparently planted this servant at her side in an attempt to keep an eye on her.

And suddenly all Dean can think of is what Cas said this morning— _what if I never want to?_

Is she complicit in all of this? Was Samandriel telling the truth a moment ago? What if he’d been sending a message to Balthazar on Cas’s behalf? Dean grits his teeth at the subsequent thoughts that occur to him. What if Cas is in love with this cousin of hers? What if that’s the real reason why she wore black at the wedding—to mourn the end of her relationship with her cousin?

The more he thinks about it, the more sense it makes.

_What if I never want to?_

What other reason could possibly explain Cas’s reluctance to accept him? Dean is a good lover—if Cas asks around, Dean is certain that she’d hear only complimentary things about his prowess. He’s been nothing but kind to her, so she can’t possibly object to his person. So what else is there? Nothing that Dean can think of. Is it that he is not forceful enough? Maybe he’s not living up to the legend of being strong and imposing and demanding that the commoners seem so eager to spread.

 _Generous_ , Samandriel had said. It certainly is _generous_ of Dean, inviting a rival for his wife’s affection into his own home.

He needs a drink.

* * *

Castiel wakes up to the coverlet being yanked away, but she doesn’t fully wake until a pair of large hands shoves her onto her back, jolting her into full consciousness. Her immediate instinct is to fight, and her fist is flying before she’s even opened her eyes, connecting with what feels like a shoulder.

Above her, her attacker grunts, and Castiel opens her eyes to see that it’s Dean.

“I—I’m sorry,” she gasps out, going limp beneath him, and she allows it when Dean grasps both her wrists in his right hand and pins them above her head.

His gaze is… intense, and she cannot tell whether it is just heated or if he’s actually angry about something. And then he’s leaning down, kissing her hard enough that it isn’t pleasant at all. He pulls away and kisses his way down her neck to suck at her collarbone, and she becomes aware of his erection pressing against her lower belly.

“Dean,” she murmurs, genuinely worried that something has gone wrong, that he is doing this now to try to forget. She’s heard and read before that men sometimes attempt to escape from their troubles through spirits and pleasures of the flesh, and she’s almost certain that she tasted alcohol in Dean’s mouth. “Dean, please tell me what’s wrong.”

Dean pulls away from her neck with an audible, wet sound, and answers, “Nothing.”

His left hand runs up and down the outside of her bare thigh. Castiel wishes she’d thought to wear hose, or a girdle or even a petticoat under her nightgown tonight, but she’d thought herself safe after their conversation this morning, thought that Dean wouldn’t try to touch her. As it is, she wears nothing beneath her nightgown to cover her lower half, and when Dean’s hand skims over to press her legs wider apart, she can’t help but stiffen in dread.

So all of his words from before meant nothing. Willing or not, _wanting_ or not, he intends to take her tonight. Castiel knows that it is his right—she’s known that from the beginning.

But she can’t quell the vile taste of bitterness in her mouth at the betrayal in Dean’s actions.

* * *

Dean strokes up and down Cas’s inner thigh. Her skin is so smooth, so soft, and he remembers that she is—or that she _should_ be—untouched. And this last thought enrages him even more. What if part of the reason why she’s worried about bedding him is that she’s already been claimed by another, by that blasted cousin of hers?

He mouths along the low neckline of her shift, but when he looks up, he sees that her eyes are hard, lips set in a determined line, and this is all so wrong.

Her body tastes and feels like it should, like everything he’s craved, but she isn’t responding to him the right way, seems completely unaffected by him, and he _hates_ it. He hates that he’s hard and raring to go while she remains nearly motionless and disconnected from it all. And most of all, he hates the reason why.

She’s in love with another man. That _must_ be it. It must be the reason why she doesn’t respond to him, the reason why she asked that damned question— _what if I never want to?_ —that keeps circling around in his head no matter how much he wants to be rid of it.

“Dean,” Cas says, voice somehow managing to come out soft and compassionate, “speak to me.”

But he doesn’t _want_ to talk to her. He wants to ruin her, make an absolute wreck of her, defile her until she’s so filthy that she’ll think herself unworthy of her pure, sweet love. He wants to reach into her chest and brand his name into her heart. He gazes into her deep, blue eyes and feels reckless madness broiling inside him.

Dean presses forward to kiss Cas again, but he’s too forceful, and her lip splits between their teeth. The sudden flavor of rust invades his mouth, and he draws back suddenly, stares down at her lip, at the blood that’s welling up around the cut. And he knows that it’s wrong, but all he wants to do is lap it up and keep kissing her. He wants to shake her, rattle her, sink into her until she knows in her _bones_ that she’s his and his alone.

She _owes_ him her heart.

The sudden ferocity of his possessiveness finally hits Dean, and he pulls back, lifts himself onto his elbows to look down at her. She turns her head just a bit, as though she wants to turn away but doesn’t dare to show that kind of disobedience, and it makes him sick.

He lifts a hand and slowly brushes it across her lower lip, wiping away the blood. “Cas…”

Her eyes retain some measure of calm understanding. “Dean,” she says. “You are troubled. You can talk to me—I may not be able to help you, but I can share your burden.”

And he feels even worse, because he’d been so close to forcing her, so close to taking her just because he could, and all the while she thought he was acting out because he was stressed. She would have let Dean _rape_ her for _stress relief_.

“No,” Dean says, “you can’t.”

With that, he pushes off the bed and stalks out of the room—he needs to get away from her. She may be in love with another, but the punishment for that is not something so horrid as rape. Dean had no choice in this marriage, and he was a _king_. It stands to reason that Cas had no choice, either. Maybe she just needs time. Time to forget her old love, and…

Dean shakes his head. He needs to find out whether or not Samandriel was telling the truth. If Cas is still keeping up a correspondence with her old love even now, then her crime is unforgivable. And Christ, Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if his suspicions are confirmed.

He thinks back to what Sam said about Cas’s potential as a spy. It hurts to consider it, but after what he discovered tonight, it seems much less farfetched.

Dean raps on the door to his servants’ quarters, and it swings open swiftly.

“Dean,” Ash says, surprised. “It’s late. What do you need?”

“Come with me.”

Ash doesn’t ask questions, just follows Dean out of the antechamber and down the hall to his study. Dean likes to use it for private conversations because the walls were built thicker as an extra measure against eavesdroppers.

As soon as the door closes behind Ash, Dean turns to him. “I need you to keep an eye on Cas’s guards.”

Ash raises his eyebrows. “Both of them?”

“Yes. But if you have to choose, watch over Samandriel.”

“When should I alert you?”

Dean considers this for a moment before deciding, “Whenever he does anything suspicious. Tonight I caught him sending a message off with a royal dove. He claimed that it was for Prince Balthazar of Tarcaelius and that he was acting on his own, but I cannot trust his word.”

“You… you think the queen—”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” Dean chides Ash, even though that is the direction of his own thoughts. “I want you to report back to me. Do not let him know what you’re doing. If he speaks to Cas in private, I want to know immediately.”

Ash nods. “Will do.”

“Where is he right now?”

“Should be in bed,” Ash responds. “If you’d like me to check—”

“That won’t be necessary. Just make sure not to let him out of your sight, starting tomorrow morning.”

Ash nods again and says, “Will that be all?”

“Yes. You’re dismissed.”

Ash bows his head and backs out of the room without another word. The door falls shut, and Dean moves across the room to sit at his desk. He doesn’t think he can face Cas again tonight, so it appears he’ll be spending the night here.

* * *

Castiel curls up as soon as Dean is gone, tugs the coverlet back up so that she can hide under it.

Dean’s actions tonight differed so greatly from his prior manners and supposed intentions, and Castiel cannot imagine what could possibly have pushed him to such action—she refuses to believe that this is his true nature, finally showing itself.

Could Dean have been taunted by his knights? Does anyone know that the king has not yet had his wife?

It’s hardly possible. Castiel may have told Meg and Anna, but she trusts them with her life—she knows for a fact that neither of them would ever share this information, not even with Inias or Samandriel. So if anyone else knows, that knowledge would have had to come from Dean.

Against her will, Castiel’s eyes begin to well up. She’d kept a brave face while Dean was in the room, hovering only inches above her, but now tears slide across her face and land on her pillow, and she curls tighter into herself, wipes at her eyes with the covers.

Her reaction is ridiculous, illogical, and she tries to stop. She knows— _has_ known, ever since she was informed of the impending marriage—that her body belongs to Dean, that he can do with it what he wishes. Yet it seems that part of her naively believed that he would respect her wishes, that he would not take advantage of her, even though it was completely within his rights.

But eventually she calms down, and her tears dry, and she reminds herself that even though Dean had come close, in the end he _hadn’t_ taken advantage of her. He’d left without explanation, but the important thing is that he hadn’t gone through with it. She cannot say that he has completely destroyed the faith she had in him. And she _did_ have faith in him, she realizes. It’s hard to believe, given the short length of time that they’ve known each other.

Sometime later, Castiel realizes that Dean still hasn’t returned. But where could he be, if he isn’t sleeping in his own bed? Surely he doesn’t plan to stay up all night. Part of Castiel thinks that it would serve him right, after what he was about to do tonight, but the rest of her worries despite herself that he’ll catch a cold, or that someone will find him out of bed and make assumptions about the state of their marriage.

Castiel deliberates over the proper course of action for a few minutes before getting out of bed and pulling a coat on over her chemise. She exits the room and shivers a little at the cool air in the antechamber—the door to the hallway is open, admitting a light breeze into the room. Castiel hesitates for a moment before gently knocking on the door to Dean’s servants’ quarters.

Ash opens the door a moment later, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Highness,” he murmurs, and Castiel is almost surprised—she’s seen the way he acts around Dean, and she knows that he does not afford this amount of respect to his master. They’re too friendly for that.

“Please, Castiel is sufficient in private,” she says, taking Dean’s example.

Ash nods once. “Did you need anything?”

“If Dean were to go anywhere in the middle of the night, would you be aware?” she asks.

“That depends,” Ash answers. “If he didn’t want me to know where he was, I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to find him. Are you—did he not go back to bed?”

“Do you know where I might find him?” Castiel asks.

“His study,” Ash says. “Would you like me to take you there?”

Castiel shakes her head. “Thank you, but no. I know the way. You may return to your rest.”

Ash flashes a bright smile at her. “Good night, Castiel.”

Castiel smiles back before turning away and moving toward the hallway.

Ash’s door closes behind her, and Castiel wonders whether or not she should ask Inias to accompany her to Dean’s study. The hall outside is dim, sparsely lit with a few torches, and she has to admit she’s a little afraid of the dark, especially in this place that is still mostly foreign to her.

But back at home, she was able to venture out into the fields in the dead of night, navigating solely by moonlight, and it was much darker there than it is now. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she steps out into the hallway and moves quickly and quietly toward Dean’s study.

She reaches the door in less than a minute and pauses, wondering whether or not she should knock before entering. But after a moment of hesitation, she turns the knob and presses the door open. The room is dark, barely lit by a single flickering candle set on Dean’s desk.

Dean himself is in the chair at his desk, sprawled forward with his head resting on his folded arms.

Castiel feels her anger and discomfort melt away at the sight of him looking so vulnerable. She crosses the room and removes her coat as she does so, draping it over his shoulders as a sort of makeshift blanket. But as soon as the material settles on his back, Dean stirs, and Castiel takes a step back, not wanting to startle him.

He sits up, hand reaching back to catch the cloth before it falls to the floor, and turns, recognition flaring in his eyes when he sees her.

“Cas,” he says.

She manages a small smile. “You could catch a cold out here,” she says, even as the cold makes gooseflesh rise on her bare arms.

Dean gets to his feet and wraps the coat around Castiel, rubbing her arms to generate warmth. “Don’t be ridiculous, Cas. What were you thinking, coming out here dressed like this?”

“You hadn’t returned. I assumed—quite correctly—that you’d fallen asleep somewhere else in the castle. In the summer, I wouldn’t worry too much, but it’s near winter, and I’d rather you didn’t fall ill,” Castiel answers.

Dean gives her a strange look at these words, but she lets her gaze drop, avoiding his eyes and focusing on his nose and lips instead. “Thanks, Cas,” he says. Then he clears his throat and adds, “I’m very—I shouldn’t have—tonight, I didn’t—”

He cuts himself off after a few failed attempts at speech and simply looks at Castiel imploringly, and she understands that he is a monarch, that he’s likely gotten his way for most of his life, and that apologies don’t come easily for him. So she musters up some courage and takes a step closer to him, leans up and presses her lips to his.

When she backs away, Dean’s eyes are wide, lips slightly parted, and it’s plain to see that her response has startled him.

“Cas—”

Castiel places two fingers over his lips, silencing him. “Whatever it is you think you must say, I don’t need to hear it. I have no need to forgive you, because there is nothing to forgive.”

But her words don’t have their intended effect—instead of looking relieved, Dean drops his gaze to the ground, a pained expression on his face, and Castiel doesn’t understand. She’d been so certain that having her forgiveness would set him right.

“You think you’ve wronged me,” Castiel says, lifting a hand to her husband’s cheek, “but you didn’t actually _do_ anything.” His eyes meet hers after a moment of hesitation, and she tries to look as sincere as she can. “You know as well as I do that I… that you were well within your rights.” Dean looks uncomfortable when she says this, but Castiel presses on anyway, “The fact that you’d think to apologize is already more than I could ever have asked for, Dean.”

Guilt still lingers in Dean’s eyes, and Castiel doesn’t know what else she can say. But he turns away and starts toward the door, pulling her along with him. “You should go back to bed,” he says.

“What—aren’t you coming with me?” Castiel asks as he opens the door for her.

He sighs. “Cas…”

“Come back to bed,” Castiel says, placing her hand on his forearm. “Please. If you get sick, I’ll have no choice but to blame myself. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Dean stares at her for a long moment, as though he’s willing her to give up, but she has always been stubborn, and he’s already given her leave not to be afraid of him. Eventually he turns away from her to move toward his desk, and at first Castiel thinks he’s going to resume his seat, but he only snuffs the candle before returning to the doorway.

The walk back to their chambers feels considerably safer with Dean standing to her right, close enough that she can feel the warmth from his body all along her right side. Upon reentering their room, Castiel removes her coat and hangs it up in the wardrobe before crawling back under the covers, shivering.

It takes a few minutes for Dean to join her, and she notes that he’s taken off his vest and tunic but kept his breeches on. He’s lying on his side, facing her, eyes closed even though it’s impossible for him to have fallen asleep so fast, and there’s a careful distance between them. Castiel watches him for a moment before shifting forward on the bed, closing the gap and tucking her head beneath his chin. She feels him tense up, but she doesn’t falter, burrows into his chest and closes her eyes.

Dean remains awkwardly, painfully still for a long while, and Castiel’s on the brink of backing away in defeat when the arm that she’s been lying on slides up to cushion her neck, and his other arm gathers her in close. Their legs tangle together, and the roughness of his breeches feels strange against her bare skin.

Castiel breathes deep, reminds herself that she is trying to be affectionate, and tilts her chin forward slightly so she can press her lips to his breastbone. She hears his breathing hitch in response.

“Good night, Dean,” she says.

“Sleep, Cas,” he answers.

So Castiel curls into the warmth of Dean’s torso and relaxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said at the end of the previous chapter, I'm super anxious about this chapter. I just. I feel like I handled it all appropriately, but arrrgh. Dean's impulsiveness temporarily overriding his morals, Cas's responses to it, guh. I agonized over the second half so much, like you have no idea.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm home now, which means I won't have as much free time to write and edit anymore. I'll continue to update when I can, but I'm just giving you guys a bit of warning. Until next time, happy reading!
> 
> **ETA: You can keep up with my progress and/or thoughts about this fic by tracking the[tsooe tag](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/tsooe) on tumblr.**

Before meeting with any nobles the next morning, Dean drafts a quick letter extending an invitation to Castiel’s brother and cousins to visit. Then he summons a rider and instructs him to deliver the message, along with a carrier pigeon to bring their response back—a bird will move faster than a rider could.

After completing this task, Dean sits in silence for some time, thinking.

Last night he’d acted rashly. He’d come so close to forcing himself upon a woman—and not just any woman, but his own _wife_. He has no excuse for his actions. He only knows that he was furious, that his judgment had been clouded by anger and alcohol and something that felt suspiciously like jealousy.

Cas’s reaction, though… Dean still doesn’t understand it. Her immediate response to his… _assault_ , for lack of a better word, made sense. But her decision to find him in his study, to coax him back into bed with her, and to willingly lie in his arms… none of that makes any sense.

Dean can’t decide whether it makes him more or less suspicious of an affair. Maybe Cas is sincerely a good person, wise beyond her years and far more forgiving than Dean deserves. But on the other hand, maybe she _is_ having an affair with her cousin, and all of her kindness last night was part of an act to gain Dean’s trust.

Or maybe this has nothing to do with Cas’s emotions at all. Maybe Sam is right, and Cas is actually trying to spy on Laurentia, to find any weaknesses that Tarcaelius could exploit in an invasion.

Dean rubs his temple, trying to stave off the headache that’s beginning to set in, but it doesn’t help. He needs to just get _away_ for a while. But he has nobles to meet with, and he can’t simply neglect them without consequence—delaying today’s meetings will only make for more appointments later. And Sam will give him the disappointed, disapproving look that he hates so much.

So Dean sighs and gets up, straightens the papers on his desk before leaving for the throne room.

* * *

“Elle, do you want us to come with you?” Meg asks.

“No. I think I’d like to be alone for a few hours,” Castiel replies.

As she speaks, Jo enters the bedroom and freezes. “Oh, I hadn’t realized you were still here,” she says. Then, gesturing to the door, she adds, “Would you like me to…?”

“No, no. What are you doing?” Castiel asks.

“I was just going to replace the sheets,” Jo answers.

“In that case, Meg and Anna will help you with the laundry.”

“Thanks,” Jo says.

Castiel exits the room and pauses in the hallway, unsure where she wants to go. All she knows is that she wants to be alone— _needs_ to be alone—for a while.

She wanders down the halls aimlessly. Servants bow to her when they cross paths, and she acknowledges them with small smiles, as sincere as she can make them—she simply doesn’t _want_ to smile right now.

“Your Highness,” a vaguely familiar voice says, and Castiel turns to see the cook approaching her.

“Richard,” she recalls. “Hello.”

He gives her a jovial smile and stops before her. “Where are you headed?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel admits.

“Well, I’m off to gather some mushrooms and herbs from the hills north of here,” Richard says, lifting an empty basket and bringing it to Castiel’s attention—she hadn’t even noticed it before. “Would you like to come with me?”

It seems the perfect solution to her problem. She wishes to escape the castle and the thoughts associated with it, and the fresh air will surely do her some good.

So she smiles and says, “Yes, I would like that very much.”

Richard seems pleased by her acceptance and leads the way down the hall without another word. He doesn’t speak, and Castiel is relieved. She belatedly recalls that he’d been very talkative during the morning that she’d spent in the kitchen preparing Dean’s breakfast, but he is silent now as he takes her out of the castle, and she wonders whether or not he knows something.

They don’t speak for a long time even after they’ve left the castle, and although Castiel appreciates the silence, she eventually does begin to wonder why they’ve come across no other people out here.

“These are the private hills of the royal family,” Richard informs her when she asks. His basket is hardly even a third full, even though Castiel has seen plenty of mushrooms during their trek. “Commoners cannot enter without special permission from the royal family.”

“I see,” Castiel says. After a moment, she asks, “Is that why you are out to gather supplies on your own? I’d imagine this is typically a task for a servant and not a cook.”

Richard clicks his tongue at her. “Now, remember what I told you before?” Castiel nods—he’d said that she seemed a talented cook but that she lacked the amount of experience to make her proficient. Now he says, “This is proof that I was absolutely correct. The types and ages of mushrooms are extremely important for gathering. Common servants hardly have any use for this knowledge, so naturally, we cooks take it upon ourselves to collect what we need.”

“I hadn’t realized,” Castiel says. “That is very interesting. Could you teach me?”

Richard smiles kindly. “I would be most honored to.”

The next time they come across a patch of mushrooms, Richard squats down and asks Castiel to describe them to him.

“I would say they are… round when viewed from above, and—” she gathers her skirts and squats as well to get a closer look, “—tall, with narrow stalks. Their heads also appear to be taller and narrower than the mushrooms I am accustomed to. I don’t think I’ve ever seen these used in a dish.”

“Very good,” Richard says. “They are not used in dishes because they taste… well, quite frankly, they taste awful. However, they do have lovely hallucinogenic properties. I’ve enjoyed one or two in the past.”

“Hallucinogenic? I cannot imagine that would be pleasant,” Castiel says, wrinkling her nose as she stands.

“You might be surprised, Highness,” Richard answers. He springs to his feet as well, and they continue on their way.

“Do those mushrooms have a name?”

“I don’t think I’ve heard an official name,” Richard says thoughtfully, “but my friends and I have always referred to them as magic mushrooms.”

Castiel smiles at the thought of magic being performed by mushrooms. It sounds otherworldly, the stuff of old wives’ tales and children’s imaginations.

“Your Highness,” Richard says a few minutes later.

When he doesn’t continue, Castiel prompts, “Yes?”

“Before I speak my mind, I want you to know that I do not intend to offend you in any way, nor do I mean to overstep any boundaries. As soon as I do so, you need only say the word, and I will be silent.”

“I understand,” Castiel says, perplexed by the gravity of his speech.

“Earlier, in the castle, you wished for escape, or perhaps just a reprieve,” Richard says, and Castiel stiffens slightly, though she does not stop following him. “I don’t presume to know how you feel, but whatever is troubling you may become easier to face if you share it.”

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately. It doesn’t make sense that Richard would have noticed any deviation in her demeanor because he is not familiar with her typical behavior.

“How do you know that I am troubled?” she asks Richard. He hesitates, and she says, “Did Meg or Anna go to see you?”

Richard stops walking and turns to give Castiel a rueful smile. “Meg may have stopped by to talk to me earlier this morning.”

“Of course she did,” Castiel says, her suspicions confirmed. “There is no need to worry about me, Richard. I just have some things on my mind.”

“But with all due respect, that is precisely what I was referring to,” Richard says. “Perhaps sharing your thoughts will lessen your burden.”

Castiel shakes her head. “I appreciate your offer, but it is none of your concern.”

“Very well. But if ever you would like a sympathetic ear, know that you can come to me.”

“Thank you. That is very kind of you.”

Richard only smiles in response before turning away, and they continue on their walk.

* * *

Dean rushes through his morning appointments, hardly sparing time to listen to the nobles’ complaints. Sam has read through them all anyway, and Dean trusts his little brother’s judgment in most things.

As the clock strikes noon, Dean dismisses Baron Devereaux, denying him permission to essentially spy on the villages that lie on his land. There is being informed about one’s subjects, and then there is intruding on privacy. Devereaux certainly does not need to know everything about everyone.

As soon as the baron is gone, Dean leaves the throne room in search of Adam. He finds him on the way to the dining hall and bullies him into going out for a ride.

“What—no dinner?” Adam says.

Dean just herds him in the direction of the stables. “You can eat later,” he says. “It’s not as though the cooks would refuse you food.”

About fifteen minutes later, they’re riding out of the city and into the surrounding forest, and already Dean feels a little better.

But the silence could never last, of course, and when they slow down to let the horses rest, Adam asks, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Who said anything was wrong?” Dean replies. Adam raises his eyebrows, looking between their horses pointedly, and Dean says, “What, I can’t just want to go on a ride with my little brother?”

“Actually, you can’t,” Adam says. “Not in the middle of a day packed with meetings, at least. Dean, we’re skipping dinner right now. That is not normal, especially for you.”

They reach a stream, and Dean dismounts to get a drink of water.

He hears Adam’s feet hit the ground a short way behind him. “Is it to do with Castiel?” Adam asks.

Dean drinks from the water cupped in his palm, wipes his mouth with his sleeve, and gets to his feet before saying, “What makes you think that?”

Adam shrugs. “It’s the only thing that has changed recently,” he answers.

“Hmm. I suppose you’re right,” Dean says.

“It is to do with Castiel, then.”

“Don’t worry yourself. It’s not serious.”

“Serious enough to make you want to escape,” Adam points out.

“You know, you’re sounding more and more like Sam these days.”

“Which is a good thing,” Adam says with a smile. “Now stop trying to change the subject. You brought me out here for a reason, so talk.”

“I don’t think I like how perceptive you are now,” Dean says. He walks up the bank and sits in the grass by the horses. He doesn’t talk to Sam anymore because Sam reads him too easily, and he hadn’t expected the same problem to arise with Adam so soon. Apparently, he was wrong.

Adam watches him for a moment before coming up to sit beside him. “I won’t laugh at you, if that’s what is staying your tongue,” he says eventually. “I see that this is important to you.”

Dean looks out at the stream. “I remember you telling me, years ago, that you were in love with Bela,” he says, glancing at his brother as he finishes speaking.

He catches the way Adam’s smile falters at the painful memory. “Yes, I was.”

Dean turns back toward the water. “How did you know?”

“I’m not sure. I just… _knew_.”

“When?”

There’s a long pause before Adam says, “Dean, if you think you’re in love with her, you probably are.”

And this response frustrates Dean, because he _doesn’t_ know, not the way Adam apparently did. It’s not enough for him to have these strange new _feelings_. He’s certain that he’s never cared so much about a woman’s opinion of himself before. A woman has never occupied his thoughts so wholly during his waking hours. If he didn’t know better, he would blame this on some form of enchantment.

“Dean?”

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah.”

Adam gives him an odd look. “You know, I wasn’t sure I believed it when Sam told me that you were serious about her, but now…”

“Sam talked to you about this?” Dean says, frowning. “What did he say?”

“Not much. I heard from Kate who heard from Ruby that Castiel visited Sam yesterday, so I thought I’d ask Sam about her. He just said that she was smart and that you seemed to be very serious about her,” Adam recalls.

“You agree with him, then.”

“Judging from how you’ve been acting today, yes. It’s not hard to tell when you’re distracted,” Adam says. “Maybe you should have taken her for a ride, instead of me. Might have been more fun.”

Dean tries and fails to smile. “Funny,” he says dryly.

Adam’s brow furrows, and Dean looks away. “Is something wrong?” Adam asks. “Between you and Castiel, I mean. Honestly, I didn’t expect you to be so solemn so soon after the wedding, but it seems I was wrong.”

“We’re fine,” Dean says.

Perhaps the strangest thing is that they _do_ seem to be fine. When he woke this morning, Cas was still fast asleep, head pillowed on his chest. One of his hands had been buried in her hair. The other was at his side, fingers tangled with Castiel’s.

Dean had tried to slide out without waking her, but she’d stirred and looked up at him with sleep-dulled eyes, a small smile stretching her lips. They hadn’t really spoken, though—Dean had said that he needed to prepare to meet with today’s set of nobles, and Cas had said something about not working too hard, and then Dean had slipped out of bed, gotten dressed, and made his escape.

“I don’t believe you,” Adam says.

“Believe whatever you want,” Dean replies, getting to his feet.

Adam tilts his head back to look up at him. “Where to now?”

“I thought we’d visit Mother and Father,” Dean says. It hadn’t been part of his plans before, but he thinks he wants to pay them a visit—the last time Sam and Adam tried to convince him to go, he’d made up an excuse to stay behind.

At Dean’s suggestion, Adam scrambles to his feet. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. I… it’s been a while,” Dean answers.

“Should we invite Sam along?”

“We’re already halfway there. I don’t want to double back. It’s fine—Sam visits them every other month. They won’t miss him.”

Adam nods and goes to mount his horse. Dean hesitates for a moment before swinging into the saddle and starting off for the graveyard where his parents are interred.

The ride is a short one, and Dean hardly sees anything on the way there, following Adam between the trees without paying much attention to his surroundings. Upon reaching the boundary of the cemetery, Dean and Adam dismount and lead their horses on foot, a gesture of respect for the dead.

Soon—almost too soon—they reach Father’s headstone and come to a stop. They stand in silence for a long moment, and then Dean backs away.

“You can speak to them first,” he says to his little brother, and Adam offers him a smile.

Dean moves out of earshot and looks out over the numerous grave markers. Here, both of his maternal grandparents are buried. A few aunts and uncles whom he hardly knew are buried here, along with more that he never met. Nobles usually prefer to be buried on their own land, but members of the royal family almost invariably choose to be buried in the royal cemetery, and rightly so.

He passes a particular grave marker and has to stop, looking down at the name.

Robert John Winchester.

Dean takes a knee, pressing a hand to the ground in front of the grave. He has nothing to give poor Bobby John. There was nothing he could have done—nothing _anyone_ could have done, but Dean sometimes wonders whether Mother would have been all right if Bobby John had survived. He’d fallen ill with measles two days after he turned seven, and Dean still remembers how useless he’d felt.

At the time, he’d been nearly eighteen years old, had already led the Laurentian army through two different wars and conquered a substantial amount of land for his father. Yet he was forced to watch—helpless, hopeless, and utterly useless—as his child brother wasted away.

Mother had been quiet for a long time after that. She smiled and acted normal around everyone, but Dean noticed the way her face changed when she thought no one was looking. Not three months later, she caught a cold. The physician said that she should have been fine, but her condition only worsened, and no amount of medicine and rest helped.

It’s been just under six years since Bobby John passed, and it all still hurts.

“‘m sorry, Bobby John,” Dean says quietly.

Then he hears Adam’s footsteps approaching and gets back to his feet.

“Finished already?”

Adam nods. “Yes. There wasn’t much I had to say. You go ahead.”

Dean leads his horse back toward his parents’ graves and stops in front of them.

“Hello, Mother, Father. I… I am sorry it’s been so long since I last visited. I would say that it’s because I’ve been busy, but we all know that’s not true.”

He releases the reins of his horse and steps forward, touches Mother’s headstone. The rock is cold under his fingertips, and he pulls his hand back quickly.

“I’m married, now,” he says. “She’s beautiful, and very smart. She’s from Tarcaelius, but I think you would have liked her anyway.”

Then he squats down before Mother’s grave and runs his fingers over the inscription of her name. A memory floats to the forefront of his mind, fleeting images of his own small hand clutching a soft, light blue square of silk—a handkerchief—with his mother’s initials embroidered in the corner.

“Mother, you remember all those stories you used to tell me when I was a child, don’t you?” he says, smiling faintly. “You must remember how I scoffed at romance, at the notion of love at first sight. But you’re laughing at me now, aren’t you?”

Amusement slowly fades from his features as yesterday’s events come to mind, and he closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself.

“Sam suspects Cas to be capable of treason. And I… I fear that she… that she loves another, that her heart does not belong to me. I want to trust her—in my heart, I think I already do. But can my heart make this decision for me? In my mind, I find myself beginning to suspect that she might have had… unsavory motives for marrying me, but…” he sighs. “If only you could answer. You and Father always had advice for me.”

He falls silent, thinking about his parents, about the afterlife. Now that they’re gone, do they know the truth of the world? If they could respond to him, would they be able to show him Castiel’s true nature?

But his parents are beyond his reach now, and their knowledge will not affect him. Nevertheless, Dean finds himself hoping that Mother and Father are indeed capable of knowing all that they want to know about the world. He hopes that they know what is happening to him, even when he does not have time to visit them and tell them in person.

Then he chuckles to himself—he can practically hear Father telling him that he’s gone soft, that this train of thought was far too sentimental for a warrior of Laurentia to have. But he imagines that there would be affection in Father’s tone of voice, that Father would go on to say that getting soft is inevitable, now that Dean has a woman in his life. Dean can still remember the way Father complained about Mother’s attempts to turn him into a gentleman, whenever she was within earshot.

He wonders what they would have thought of Castiel, if they’d met her. Would they suspect her, too? Or would they trust her the way Dean instinctively wants to?

But these thoughts are useless, won’t help anyone. He looks back at the headstones in front of him and remembers his parents, remembers what they’d looked like, sounded like.

“I hope… I hope that wherever you are, you’re happy,” Dean says, because in the end, that’s all that really matters to him with respect to his parents. “Sam, Adam, and I are all well. We’ll bring Sam along next time. And… and maybe one day I’ll bring Cas here to meet you, too.”

Dean straightens and waits in front of the graves for a few more minutes before taking the reins and leading his horse back over to Adam. They leave the cemetery in silence. At the boundary, they mount their horses and ride for the castle.


	7. Chapter 7

Inias pushes open one of the large doors that lead into the library and steps through, holding the door open for Castiel and Meg to enter.

“Castiel,” Ellen says, and Castiel looks up to see that the librarian is standing on a stepladder, pushing a thick volume into place on one of the top shelves.

“Hello, Ellen,” Castiel says.

“It’s nice to see you here again. Though I’m surprised that you keep coming back,” Ellen says as she climbs down the ladder. “You must be very studious.”

“I wouldn’t say _very_ studious,” Castiel answers with a smile as she starts toward the back of the library. “Is Chuck here today?” she asks, and Ellen laughs.

“Chuck is always here.”

Castiel, Inias, and Meg reach the end of the center row of shelves and turn to the right, heading for the door in the corner. Inias walks slightly faster than Castiel so that he can reach the door first and knock on it. When Chuck responds, Inias pushes the door open.

“Oh, hi C-Castiel,” Chuck stutters, as though he’s still apprehensive about calling Castiel by her first name, still worried about being penalized for it.

“Hello, Chuck,” Castiel says, sitting down across from his desk. The surface in front of her has been cleared out since the first time she came—the entire table had been cluttered with a mess of papers, books, and writing implements before.

“You uh, you seem to really like history,” Chuck says.

“I do,” Castiel says. “So much conflict arises in response to the whims of a few men. It’s simultaneously fascinating and horrible.”

Chuck laughs nervously, and at this point Castiel is starting to believe that that might just be his normal laugh. “Well, what did you want to read about today?” the historian asks.

Castiel considers this for a moment before deciding, “Tax records.”

“Really?” Chuck says, nervousness forgotten in his surprise. “Why would you be interested in _those?_ ”

“It’s important to know the state of the kingdom, if I am to be a proper queen. Perhaps I will not be able to directly influence affairs, but if Dean were to confide in me, I would like to be able to give well-informed responses,” Castiel answers.

“And you plan to check on the state of the nation through… tax records,” Chuck says. “Why not my compiled reports? I spent a lot of time on them.”

“I’m certain that your work is perfectly respectable, but I would prefer to make my own judgment, rather than rely on that of another, no matter how impartial,” Castiel answers.

“I see,” Chuck says. “How far back do you want to go, then? And at what level would you like to start? We collect taxes by province, but each province also turns in records for their internal estates, which in turn provide records of the villages under their command.”

“I only need records for the provinces—the smaller units will not be meaningful until I have an idea of the kingdom as a whole. I’d like to start with last year and work my way back by year,” Castiel says.

“I’ll get those accounts for you now, then.”

Chuck disappears into the library proper, and Castiel sends Inias with him so that he’ll know where to go to fetch more records for her when she finishes the first batch.

A few minutes later, they return with a thin booklet and present it to her.

“How much time does this represent?” Castiel asks.

“Two years. The collections occur each month, and each province gets its own page,” Chuck says.

“And how many years of records are held in the archives?”

“I don’t know the exact number, but there are certainly over a hundred,” Chuck replies as he moves around the desk to sit back down. “But it isn’t complete, because things go missing over the years.”

“I understand,” Castiel says. “Thank you, Chuck.”

“Not at all.”

Castiel opens the book to the first page and is pleased to find that she can picture the location of the first province on a map of Laurentia—she spent much of the past two days in this room, looking over a series of maps in order to familiarize herself with the geography of the kingdom.

She quickly leafs through the book to get a sense of the number of pages she’ll be going through. She should be able to read through at least four more of these—eight years’ worth of tax collections—by midmorning, and perhaps she’ll return after dinner to continue her work. At midmorning, she plans to find Anna and Samandriel and go for a ride. It’s been so long since Castiel was last permitted to ride a horse, and she misses it.

* * *

“Check,” Adam says.

Dean’s seen that move coming for a few turns, but he has to admit that choosing to wait was the smart thing to do. As he tries to decide whether he should move his king out of harm’s way or slide his bishop over to guard it, there are three knocks on the door in quick succession.

“Come in,” he says.

“How’s the game?” Jo says as she enters, glancing at the chessboard as she approaches. “Ah, you’re losing. All is proceeding as usual, then. Congratulations, Adam.”

Dean sighs and looks up at his maid. “Do you actually have any reason for being in here, or have you come just to laugh at me?”

“I have a message for you,” Jo says. “Just arrived by one of the pigeons you sent out with that rider three days ago.”

The Tarcaelians’ response, Dean realizes. He takes the tightly rolled scroll and opens it up.

“Should I go?” Adam asks uncertainly.

“No, stay,” Dean answers absentmindedly as he reads the brief note.

In the background, Dean’s dimly aware of Adam asking why Jo is delivering the note and not Ash—she says something about Ash disappearing like the irresponsible bastard that he is. He doesn’t hear the rest of the conversation, busying himself with reading.

Prince Uriel, the writer of the message, declined the invitation, but at the time of sending, Prince Balthazar and Lord Raphael had just left the Tarcaelian capital on horseback, riding for Laurentia with Dean’s messenger to lead the way.

Dean hadn’t had any doubts that Raphael would jump at the chance to see his sister, and suspecting what he does about Balthazar, Dean isn’t surprised at all that he chose to come while Uriel stayed behind. He can’t stifle the feeling of disappointment welling up in his chest, and he comes to realize that he’s spent these three days hoping that he’d been wrong.

“Where did you send your rider, if you don’t mind my asking?” Adam asks.

“Tarcaelius,” Dean answers. “I invited Cas’s brothers and cousins to visit.”

“Oh,” Adam says, smiling. “That’ll be a nice surprise—I assume you haven’t told her about it.”

Dean shakes his head. “When I asked whether or not she wanted them to visit, she said that it wasn’t necessary, but I decided to invite them anyway. I’m surprised that only one of her brothers is coming, though,” Dean says, frowning. “I thought she had four.” Adam stares at him, eyes wide with disbelief, and Dean says, “What?”

“Do you seriously have no idea what happened to her family?” Jo says from the side, and Dean glances over to see Jo frowning down at him.

“Of course I know,” Dean says. “It was what, seven years ago? The king vanished, and his brother took over, so Cas and her brothers had to step down.” When Adam and Jo exchange glances, Dean lets out an exasperated sigh. “All right, what did I get wrong? You both know I hardly pay attention to the political situation in our own kingdom _now_ —how could you expect me to have paid attention to affairs in a foreign nation when I wasn’t yet eighteen? Besides, I’m pretty sure I was on the battlefield when it happened, so I had more pressing concerns.”

“Castiel’s other brothers are all gone,” Adam says. “No one knows what happened to them, but they’ve been presumed dead for years, Dean.”

It feels like Dean’s mind has frozen, thoughts lost in the face of this new information, and his mouth seems to say without his input, “You can’t be serious.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” Adam continues as Dean’s thoughts spiral back into motion.

He remembers asking Cas about her brothers, remembers saying something— _if you’d like to see them again, tell me_ —something like that, and it must have sounded so wrong to her. How could he have not known? And then he remembers Sam offering to tell him about Cas the night that Dean found out about the engagement, remembers saying that he’d just ask her in person.

“That’s unbelievable,” Jo says. “But you… you said that you asked her about inviting them, right?” When Dean nods, Jo goes on, “Strange, that she didn’t point out your mistake then.”

“I’m sure she didn’t think it’d be appropriate to correct him,” Adam says.

“Hey, she’s the _queen_. She’s allowed to speak freely,” Jo points out.

“Sure, but she’s also from Tarcaelius. She apologized for going down to the kitchens to make breakfast for Dean, even though she has the right to access any part of the castle that she wishes,” Adam counters. “It’s not unreasonable to assume that she’d worry about propriety in her actions around Dean.”

“Regardless, you should talk to her about this, Dean,” Jo says.

“How can I bring it up now, though, days after the fact?” Dean says.

Jo shrugs. “Just say it, directly. You’re the king. It’s not as though she can fault you for trying to clarify an issue with her.”

“Maybe,” Dean says.

“Either way, I think it was good of you to invite her family over,” Adam says with an encouraging smile and a gentle clap to Dean’s shoulder.

Dean doesn’t know what to say to this. Adam believes that Dean invited Cas’s family out of kindness, but the truth is far less respectable, and Dean can’t bring himself to pretend he’s done a good thing.

Luckily, Jo spares him from having to respond by saying, “I think it’s about time for dinner, so if you two would like to head for the dining hall…”

Adam looks down at the chessboard and then back at Dean. “Would you like to finish this game first?”

Dean shakes his head and stands. “I was losing anyway. We’ll play another time.”

Jo opens the door for them, and Dean leads the way toward the dining hall. But they haven’t even gotten halfway there when Ruby appears, blocking their way.

“Dean, Sam wants to talk to you,” she says.

This is strange, because Sam hardly ever sends Ruby to find Dean—if he wants to speak to Dean, he typically comes in person. “Oh,” Dean says. “Before dinner?”

“Right now.”

Dean glances at Adam. “We could make a stop,” he says.

But Ruby confirms Dean’s suspicion that this is something important by shaking her head and saying, “He didn’t explicitly say this, but I’m pretty sure he meant to speak with you alone, Dean.”

“It’s fine,” Adam says. “I’ll go ahead and tell Castiel that you’ll be late—we can wait for you and Sam.”

“If you’re hungry, you can start without us,” Dean says.

Adam nods and continues down the hall alone, and Dean turns away to walk with Ruby. Jo hesitates for a moment before following.

“I thought I heard you and Adam talking about Ash earlier,” Dean says to Jo.

Jo nods. “Yes—Adam wanted to know why I was delivering the message in his stead.”

“And why is that?”

“Why else? He’s disappeared again,” Jo says. “He’s been doing that a lot lately. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. I’d worry about him going to the tavern, but he’s stayed off the drink for over three years, and besides, I asked Jake to check the taverns in town the last time Ash disappeared, and he couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“Andy doesn’t know anything,” Ruby says before Jo can ask. When Dean turns curious eyes on her, she explains, “Jo told me about this yesterday and wanted me to ask Andy if he knew anything.”

“Dean, you haven’t sent him out on some secret mission, have you?” Jo asks.

Dean laughs. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be secret anymore, would it?”

“You don’t have to tell us what it is—just confirm that you _do_ have secret orders for him so that I can stop worrying about him,” Jo says. “Please,” she adds when Dean raises an eyebrow at her.

“It’s sweet that you’re worrying about him,” Dean says.

“I’m not—I’m not worried for his _well-being_. I’m worried about what he’s out doing whenever he’s not here,” Jo protests.

“Of course you are,” Dean responds.

“ _Dean_ —”

“No, no, I believe you. You don’t care about him at all, just as you didn’t care about him last year when we all thought he’d been burnt to ashes in that fire,” Dean says.

“You know, I don’t have to put up with this abuse,” Jo says. “I don’t know why I do.”

Dean doesn’t bother to answer—he knows very well that Jo could ask her mother to employ her in the library at any time, and he wouldn’t stop her. There was a period in time, maybe three or four years ago, when he would have reveled in Jo’s attention, but he hasn’t seen her in that way for a long time.

When they reach Sam’s chambers, Ruby opens the door to the antechamber and steps aside to let Dean inside. But before he can enter, Jo reaches a hand out, grasping his elbow.

“Do you want me to wait for you?” she asks.

Dean shakes his head and says, “Go get something to eat.”

Jo nods and releases his arm. “Thank you, Dean.”

Ruby clears her throat impatiently, and Jo shoots her an unfriendly look before turning to leave. Dean considers talking to Ruby about her attitude, but this isn’t the first time she’s had issues, and Dean clearly doesn’t have much influence over her actions. Sam spoils her too much.

Dean doesn’t bother waiting for Ruby to let him into Sam’s private study, just pushes the door open and enters. Sam doesn’t even look up, and Dean frowns.

“Well?” Dean prompts as Ruby pulls the door shut from the outside. Sam continues to write, and Dean says, “Ruby told me that there was something you wanted to say to me.”

“There is,” Sam answers without looking up. “Wait just another moment, and I’ll give you my full attention.”

“Sam, I was on my way to dinner. Maybe you were planning to skip your meal, but I certainly have not decided to skip my own. I’m pretty sure your papers can wait.”

Sam pauses in his writing to look up. Dean doesn’t know what Sam sees on his face, but whatever it is, it makes Sam decide to put down his quill and fold his hands together on the desk. “I hear you invited some members of the Tarcaelian royal family to visit.”

“How did you hear about that?” Dean says, frowning. He only received the news himself moments ago—it doesn’t make sense that Sam would have found out so quickly.

“Jo and Ruby were together when the carrier pigeon arrived, so Ruby came to tell me,” Sam answers.

And Dean knows that he’s lying—Jo couldn’t have known the content of the message because she would never read anything of Dean’s without his explicit permission, which would make it impossible for Ruby to have known anything. “Is that so?” Dean says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Sam says without batting an eyelash.

“What exactly did Ruby tell you, then?”

Sam only hesitates for a moment before replying, “She told me that the Tarcaelians had sent a message in response to your invitation.”

Dean stares at Sam for a long moment, letting his little brother stew. Sam can’t possibly think that Dean would be so easily fooled—Dean is no idiot.

Finally, Sam sighs. “Andy was the one who received the message,” he admits. “I read it before passing it on to Jo.” Dean opens his mouth to speak, and Sam hurries on, “I hadn’t realized that it was addressed to you before I read it—the outside of the scroll had no markings, so I assumed that it was intended for any member of the royal family.”

That is forgivable—Dean remembers that the scroll had been all white, with no outside indication of the recipient, so he nods. “You’re forgiven. Now, why did you ask me to come here?”

Sam looks down at his hands. “A Tarcaelian prince is going to arrive on our soil—it only takes two to three days to ride from their capital to ours, so he could very well have crossed the border already.” He shakes his head and looks up at Dean. “What do you think you’re doing?”

That question doesn’t make any sense to Dean. “You have no right to demand answers from me, Sam.”

“Why did you invite them?” Sam insists on asking. “Why didn’t you discuss it with me first?”

“It’s none of your business,” Dean says.

“None of my business,” Sam repeats, shaking his head. “Dean, this could impact our peace agreement. If they come and something— _anything_ —goes wrong, we might have to go to war. What made you think this was a good idea, hmm?”

“Just calm down, all right? I doubt they’ll be staying for long, and as long as we make sure Cas is happy—”

Sam sighs. “Look, I just wanted to remind you that it is difficult to preserve peaceful relations, especially when there’s been a history of conflict between two nations. What I’m trying to say is… even if I couldn’t have talked you out of inviting them, you still should have come to me beforehand. I need to know if we will be entertaining members of a foreign royal family. If we don’t receive them correctly, that could be taken as an insult—”

“And as grounds for war,” Dean says, stopping just short of rolling his eyes in annoyance. “I get it, Sam. What do you want me to do now?”

“Nothing,” Sam says. “It’s too late—they’re already on their way here. All we can do is prepare for their imminent arrival. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”

“Great. Can I go to dinner now?”

Sam huffs a laugh at this, and Dean counts it as a triumph even though Sam’s face settles back into a scowl as soon as he remembers himself. “Yes, go ahead,” he says. “I’ll take my dinner in here.”

“Suit yourself,” Dean replies. As he exits the room, he glances back and sees that Sam has taken up his quill again. “Don’t work too hard,” he says from the doorway. Sam only grunts in acknowledgement, and then the door swings shut.

Shaking his head, Dean leaves Sam’s chambers and goes toward the dining hall. He makes a mental note to speak with Richard in person to ensure that some food is sent to Sam for dinner—it isn’t uncommon for Sam to get so engrossed in his work that he forgets to send Ruby to fetch his food, and missing so many meals can’t be good for him.

The first thing Dean notices upon entering the hall is that Cas isn’t there. When banquets aren’t being held, Dean and his brothers—and now Cas—take their meals at a smaller table, set for four, so it’s very obvious that Cas is missing.

“I don’t know where she is,” Adam says before Dean can ask. “I already sent Kate to ask after her.”

Dean nods and takes his usual seat. It’s abnormal for Cas to be late. According to Ash, who is still dutifully tailing Inias and Samandriel whenever possible, Dean’s wife has spent the past few days in the library with Chuck. Dean visited Chuck late last night to ask what materials Cas had been looking over, and Chuck had shown Dean an array of maps of Laurentia. Supposedly Cas wants to familiarize herself with her new kingdom.

It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, but Dean hopes that Sam doesn’t hear of her activities—he already suspects that she might be a spy, and anything that relates to her gathering information will only serve to deepen his suspicions.

“Where’s Sam?” Adam asks, interrupting Dean’s thoughts.

“He’s decided to work through dinner,” Dean answers.

Adam shakes his head. “Not again. Should we force him to join us?”

“No,” Dean decides. “He’s unhappy with me—better to let him work off his discontent.”

“Why would he be unhappy with you?” Adam asks.

“It’s not important. He thought I acted rashly in inviting Cas’s family to stay with us,” Dean says.

“Hmm. I suppose that’s how I should have expected him to react,” Adam says.

Dean just nods, his thoughts returning to Cas. He’s been wondering how she’ll react when she sees her brother and cousin arrive. She tends toward mild expressions, emotions under control—even more so around Dean—and he has a difficult time imagining her reacting violently toward anything. Over the past few days, he’s caught glimpses of stronger emotions on occasion, but only when she didn’t know he was nearby.

Since that horrible night, Dean and Cas have settled into a tentative routine. He hasn’t tried to initiate contact between them, and he usually stays awake late so that she’ll be asleep already when he returns to the room. Because of this, she wakes before he does, and though her departure from the bed typically rouses him, he feigns sleep while she gets dressed.

It is during these moments that he has caught the most expression from her—Cas, Meg, and Anna speak to each other in whispers, sometimes animatedly, and Dean finds himself wishing for that type of familiarity with her.

Then the door to the dining hall opens, and Kate and Jo enter together.

“The chambers are empty, and all four of the queen’s servants are gone as well,” Jo reports, coming to stand by Dean’s chair.

“Gone?” Dean says, worry quickly rising in his chest. “Any word on where they might be?”

Standing behind Adam’s chair, Kate shakes her head and says, “I found Jake and asked him if he’d seen any of her servants today. He said that Samandriel was working in the stables earlier, but he hasn’t seen them since.”

“Ash has been missing, too,” Jo reminds Dean.

And that makes sense—Ash is tailing Inias and Samandriel, so of course he would disappear with them.

“This doesn’t sound good,” Adam says, brow furrowed.

Adam has scarcely finished speaking when the door to the hall opens again, and in come Meg, Anna, and Samandriel.  Dean instantly looks for Cas and Inias, but they do not follow the other three into the room.

“Highnesses,” Meg says with a brief curtsey—it’s become clear in the week that Cas has lived at the castle that Meg speaks for the rest of Cas’s servants.

“Where’s Cas?” Dean asks.

“We—she took us for a ride in the woods because it’s been such a long time since she was allowed to ride, and… she sprinted away without warning. We fell behind.” She pauses, then adds quickly, “I think Inias was able to keep up with her, so she’s not alone.”

“You _think_ ,” Dean says, and he’s aware that his tone is near frantic, but he can’t seem to control it. “You _think_ , or you _know?_ ”

Meg seems to shrink in size as she replies, “We’re pretty sure.”

“That’s not good enough,” Dean snaps, getting to his feet.

“Dean, calm down,” Adam says, reaching out.

But Dean moves away from the table and turns to Jo. “Fetch Victor—” wait, Victor and Garth are leading a patrol right now “—no, Caleb and Gordon,” he says. “They’re to be ready to ride within ten minutes.” The urgency in Dean’s tone has Jo hurrying out of the room.

“Dean, this is hardly an emergency,” Adam says, and he’s on his feet now, too.

“I need to find her,” is all Dean says before making his way out of the dining room and toward his stables. He himself isn’t even sure why he’s so worried—Inias has clearly been fully capable of defending Cas in the past. But all Dean can think about is how easy it had been for him to pin Cas down, how much smaller she is than the average man.

He reaches his stables just in time to see Ash dismounting hurriedly.

“They’re in the woods to the south of the city,” Ash says before Dean even opens his mouth. “Shall I prepare your horse?”

“I’ll do it myself.”

Ash hesitates as Dean saddles his horse, and then he says, “I wasn’t sure whether you wanted me to follow the queen or her servants, but I chose the latter.”

“You did well. Have they ever discovered you?” Dean asks.

“No.”

“Continue until I give the order to stop.”

Ash nods and jogs away, presumably to find Samandriel. Dean finishes saddling up, leads his horse out of the stables, and rides for the main gate, where Caleb and Gordon should be ready and waiting.

* * *

It’s been far too long since Castiel’s been on horseback, and she loves it, loves the wind whipping her hair back, out of her face.

She remembers learning to ride when she was nine years old. Gabriel and Lucifer had cropped her hair short like a boy’s to keep it out of her face so that she could see when she rode, and the look on Father’s face when he finally saw her had been terrifying and hilarious at the same time.

Michael had tried to take the blame, ordering Gabriel and Lucifer to keep silent and hiding Castiel until she couldn’t be hidden any longer, and then claiming that he had orchestrated the entire scheme. Of course, Father had known that such mischievous ideas could only have come from Lucifer or Gabriel, and Michael’s efforts had been for nothing.

Thinking back on the times when the family was together is bittersweet now. Castiel would give almost anything to go back, to have her family happily living together again. She’d give up her status and her wealth if she could live with Father and her brothers for the rest of her life.

“Milady!” Inias calls out, and Castiel rapidly blinks away the tears that had been welling up in her eyes. “Shouldn’t we return to the castle? It is nearly past noon.”

Castiel slows her horse to a walk, allowing her servant to catch up with her. “We will return when I decide to,” she says. Inias looks like he is about to protest, so Castiel adds, “Dean doesn’t pay attention to me. My presence will hardly be missed.”

As she finishes speaking, there is motion between the trees up ahead, and Castiel stops her horse, holding up her right hand as a signal for Inias to stop as well. She swiftly slings her bow around and into position, draws an arrow from her quiver, nocks it, and waits.

A stag emerges from behind the cover of some brush, and Castiel waits three beats for him to stop and graze before letting loose her bolt. The stag falls, and she and Inias ride over to it.

Inias has just leapt from his horse to remove the arrow from the dying beast when Castiel becomes aware of clapping and whooping coming from her right, along with the sound of hoofbeats.

“Inias,” Castiel says urgently, and he stands and mounts his horse rapidly.

“I’ve ne’er seen such a pretty lass wielding a bow an’ arrow!” a man shouts, and Castiel turns her horse to the left and urges it forward, away from the oncoming riders.

But another voice, this one deeper than the first, calls, “Excellent aim, Your Highness!” and she is obligated to acknowledge them, now that they apparently have discovered her identity. So Castiel slows down and turns back toward the newcomers as they approach, and she sees that the group of riders is a Laurentian patrol by the style of their garments. And then she realizes that she recognizes the two leading riders—Sirs Victor and Garth. The other ten must be members of the royal guard.

“Thank you, Victor,” Castiel says—she remembers that Garth’s voice was higher than Victor’s.

“Please forgive the men,” Victor says. “It appears their eyes are not nearly as sharp as they should be.”

Castiel smiles. “No need to blame them. I was not offended.”

Meanwhile, assessing the situation and finding that Castiel is safe, Inias dismounts and returns to the stag so that he can tie it to his horse.

“It is near noon, Highness,” Garth says, glancing up between the trees to ascertain the position of the sun in the sky. “Does the king know that you’re here?”

“No,” Castiel admits.

“Then I suggest you return to the castle as soon as possible,” Victor says.

“I’ll accompany you,” Garth volunteers, exchanging glances with Victor, and Castiel averts her eyes, pretending not to notice their silent exchange.

“Thank you. That is most considerate,” she says with another smile. By now, Inias has affixed the stag to his horse and is looking up at Castiel, waiting for her command. “We will return to the castle,” she says to him, and he starts leading his horse and its cargo back the way they’d come.

“We will take our leave, then,” Victor says, bowing his head.

“Goodbye,” Castiel responds.

Victor rides away, and the rest of the patrol follows him.

“Shall we?” Garth says, gesturing after Inias.

They ride for the castle.

* * *

Dean rides faster than he’s ridden in a long time, flanked on either side by Gordon and Caleb. They don’t bother asking why he seems to know where he’s going, and Dean’s glad for that—he does not want to explain that he has tasked Ash with keeping an eye on Cas’s servants, especially since Gordon already doesn’t trust Cas.

They’ve only been riding for a short while after passing the southern boundary of the city when Dean catches sight of a horse without a rider, led forward by a man. As they draw nearer, Dean recognizes him as Inias, but he keeps barreling onward, only slowing down when he actually sees Cas, riding with Garth. He doesn’t even realize how wound up he’s been until the tight clenching in his chest relaxes, but despite the release of tension, Dean still can’t manage a smile.

When Cas sees them approaching, she pauses, seemingly halfway through telling Garth something, surprise evident on her face.

“Dean,” she says when they come face to face, drawing back on their reins to stop their horses.

“Castiel,” he replies. “What did you think you were doing?”

“I went out for a ride,” she answers, eyes lowered.

“You should have seen her, Dean,” Garth says, but Cas shoots him a look, and he falls silent.

“Go on, Garth,” Dean says, frowning at his wife.

Garth looks between them before following Dean’s order and saying, “She felled that stag there. It was a clean shot, straight through the heart. The whole patrol witnessed it.”

Dean hadn’t even noticed the animal being carried home before Garth pointed it out. It’s a large creature, surprisingly so for this time of year. He looks at Cas, eyebrows raised. “Is this the truth?” he asks, and she nods. “I’m impressed,” he says. “But you shouldn’t have left the castle without telling me.”

Cas looks up, eyes finally meeting his, and he’s startled by the heat in them. “I apologize. I didn’t realize I would be missed,” she answers, but her tone isn’t repentant in the least, and Dean starts to feel like this impromptu hunting trip was a test.

“Of course you were missed,” Dean says. “Now come, we’re late for dinner.”

She obeys readily enough, but as Dean turns away, he can’t stop picturing the look in her eyes. Is she angry with him for some reason?


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel is sitting at the desk, the light from one candle providing just enough illumination for her to read. She’ll be able to put the candle out soon—she checked outside the curtains a few minutes ago, and judging by the color of the sky, the sun will come up over the horizon soon.

But try as she may, Castiel cannot focus on the booklet of tax records that lies on the table in front of her.

Only a week ago, she told Meg and Anna that mutual indifference would probably be best between her and Dean. Now that she and Dean have spent the past few days in polite silence, she doesn’t think she can stand it anymore.

Dean’s cool treatment of her makes the entire castle feel colder than it should. He waits until he thinks she’s asleep before sliding into bed, and whenever she wakes in the morning, there is the same careful distance between their bodies, as though Dean is _afraid_ of being near her.

In all honesty, the ride out to the forest had had a second purpose, and that was to gauge Dean’s reaction to Castiel’s unannounced disappearance. She is surprised that he rode out at all, let alone that he brought along two of his most trusted knights—Castiel wonders whether or not he would have ridden out with all four, had Victor and Garth not already been patrolling the borders.

But Dean did not bring up her little excursion when they returned to the castle, even after they were alone together, and Castiel thinks she might understand what is going through his mind now. He feels guilty about what he almost did to her, and he wants to wait until she approaches him before proceeding any farther. Castiel can guess at how he feels, but it is strange to be avoided by her own husband. She wishes he would stop, but she is loath to bring up that night with him.

Castiel turns toward the bed and looks at Dean. He is lying on his side, facing away from her, with the covers drawn up about his shoulders—she’d rearranged the coverlet for him when she got up a half hour ago. Letting out a soft sigh, she is about to turn back to her book when she notices some movement in her peripheral vision.

Then a dagger is flying right at her head, and she ducks, hand whipping out to snatch up the first item she can possibly use in a fight.

Unfortunately, all she comes up with is the booklet of tax records, too small to do any damage. She looks up in time to see a thin figure, dressed entirely in black, vault into the room from the windowsill, where he’d been perched earlier. Castiel slips to the side and swings at his head with her book.

“Dean!” she cries, alarmed.

The assassin lunges for her, catching her around the middle and tackling her to the ground. He lifts a dagger, identical to the one that had been thrown at her moments before, and starts to bring it down. Castiel grasps his knife hand with both of hers and holds it back, but he places his free hand against her throat and presses down on her windpipe, and she chokes.

“D—Dean—” she manages.

The pressure is suddenly released, the assassin dragged to the side by Dean, and Castiel sits up, gasping for air and watching as the two men roll away from her, grappling with each other. Castiel rushes to the wall, where several swords are mounted, and draws one from its sheath just as the curtains billow, revealing a second assassin perched on the sill.

Castiel gasps, shouts out a warning, and rushes toward Dean because if one assassin is skilled with knife-throwing, it stands to reason that the other is as well.

Then the knife is in the air, and Dean is leaping off the first assassin to get out of the weapon’s trajectory. The second assassin dives into the room and tumbles once, landing in a low crouch. Castiel swings her sword at him, but he hops over the blade and starts to charge her. Dean grabs him around the middle, pulling him back, but by this time the first assassin has recovered enough to knock Castiel over.

She hits the ground hard and, winded by the impact, barely manages to maintain her grip on the handle of the sword. The assassin straddles her torso, pinning her arms beneath his shins, and presses his hands to her neck again in a second attempt to strangle her. Castiel flips the sword in her grip, but it’s impossible to get any leverage to stab the man from this angle.

Castiel hears Dean and the other attacker crash into the desk, and Dean’s calling for Ash, but there’s no response from outside the room.

She starts to feel lightheaded, so she shuts her eyes and goes limp. Sure enough, the assassin assumes that she’s fainted and gets to his feet, turning to assess the other fight. As soon as his back is to her, Castiel climbs to her feet and attempts to run him through with the sword. She manages to graze him, but he reacts too quickly, twisting to the side. The blade veers off course, spraying blood across the floor.

The man barks out a word in a crude dialect that Castiel does not understand, and then he is shoving her against a wall, pinning her there with a strong grip around her neck. Castiel sucks in a deep breath just before he begins to exert pressure, and then she scrabbles at his hand, clawing at his forearm with her nails in an attempt to free herself. With his free hand, the assassin lands blow after blow on her torso, across her ribcage, and Castiel can feel her bones crunch.

Unwilling to go down without a fight, Castiel gives up on extricating herself from the assassin’s grip and uses the meaty part of her palm to jab upward against the man’s chin. He grunts in pain, loosening his grip just enough for Castiel to draw a breath of much-needed air. She wants to repeat the motion, but he captures her right arm by the wrist and twists, and if her throat weren’t blocked off, she would cry out in pain.

She beats at the side of his face with her non-dominant hand to no avail, and he only squeezes tighter. Castiel’s legs kick out involuntarily, and dark spots begin to obstruct her vision.

Just as Castiel thinks she’s going to faint, the assassin’s grip goes slack, and he is ripped away from her. Unsupported, she slumps toward the ground but is caught up by a pair of strong arms, and though she wants to close her eyes and sleep, she forces them open and looks up to see what appears to be Dean’s face above her, blurred, mouth moving soundlessly.

What is he saying? Castiel can’t see clearly enough to read his lips, and it doesn’t help that Dean keeps shaking her. Whatever it is, Dean seems frantic, and Castiel raises a hand to press it against his cheek, surprised when her fingers come into contact with _wet_ and _warm_. They come away stained red, and Castiel blinks hard, trying to clear her vision, because that must be _blood_ on her fingers—but Dean grasps her hand, presses it to his cheek again, and now she hears him faintly—

“Cas? Cas, talk to me,” he says. She meets his eyes, and he barks, “Cas!”

“Dean,” Castiel answers with a weak smile, and then all goes black.

* * *

Dean can’t bring himself to leave Cas, not when she’s injured and unconscious and lying so fragile in his arms, but when it becomes clear that no amount of shouting is going to summon his or Cas’s servants, Dean lifts Cas up, places her on the bed, and forces himself to leave her just long enough to barge into his servants’ quarters, looking for Ash and Jo.

He finds Ash in the corridor, seemingly asleep, and rouses him with some difficulty.

“Whuh—?”

“Ash— _finally!_ ” Dean exclaims, and Ash jumps to his feet, alarmed.

“D-Dean, what—”

“Fetch a physician— _now_.”

Ash doesn’t question him further, dashing from Dean’s chambers immediately. Dean then wakes Jo, who was sleeping soundly in her bed, and tells her to wake Cas’s servants and send them in, after which she is to draw some clean, hot water and bring it to Dean’s room. He doesn’t hide the urgency in his tone, and Jo hurries quickly across the antechamber to do his bidding.

Dean returns to his room and checks Cas’s breathing, lifts her head into his lap and looks down at her helplessly because he doesn’t know the extent of the injuries she sustained to her torso. At least there’s no blood.

The door opens, and Inias and Samandriel enter. They hardly even flinch at the sight of the two assassins lying prone on the ground and bow their heads respectfully in Dean’s presence.

“Tie them up,” Dean says.

“Rope,” Inias says to Samandriel before crossing the room to the first assassin whom Dean subdued—the one that isn’t bleeding.

Dean doesn’t think the second assassin will survive the knife wound that Dean dealt him, which is a shame because Dean thinks he’d like to kill him all over again, if it were possible.

Samandriel returns with rope in less than a minute, and the servants set about tying up the first assassin. As they work, Meg and Anna step hesitantly into the room. At the sight of Cas, lying prone on the bed, bruises beginning to darken around her neck, their faces pale.

“What happened?” Meg asks, rushing to Cas’s side. Anna joins her silently.

“We were attacked,” Dean says, forcing himself to remain calm. “I want you two to tell Sam and Adam about this. If they ask, I am fine, but Cas will need treatment.”

“But—your cheek,” Anna says.

“Go!” Dean says forcefully, and the maids hurry out of the room.

By now, Inias and Samandriel have bound the other assassin as well, and Dean is wondering what could possibly be taking Ash so long. Elkins is the royal physician—he lives _within the castle walls_ , so there is no excuse for this delay.

At long last, Elkins enters the bedchamber, carrying his medical kit. “Sire,” he says, but Dean just waves him forward.

“See to her injuries,” Dean says. “She was nearly strangled, and she suffered multiple blows to the chest.”

“Yes, sire.”

Dean moves out of the way and turns to Inias and Samandriel. “Bring these two out to the antechamber with me,” he orders before striding out of the bedchamber. Ash stands just outside the door with a wet, white cloth in hand, and as soon as Dean appears, Ash presses it to his cheek.

“Can’t be shedding too much of the royal blood,” he comments with a wry smile, a vain attempt at humor. But Dean is too angry and too worried to be amused, and Ash subsides, does his best to clean up the cut while Inias and Samandriel haul the two attackers into the antechamber.

By the time the assassins have been removed from Dean and Cas’s bedroom, Jo has returned with a pail of steaming hot water. At Dean’s command, she brings it inside and stays there to help the physician with anything he might need. When the door closes behind Jo, Dean turns to face the three male servants that serve him and his wife.

“What happened tonight?” he demands.

“It was sleeping powder,” Ash says. “I recognize the effects, and I feel sluggish even now.”

When Dean looks at Inias and Samandriel expectantly, they nod, and Inias says, “I have felt these effects before as well.”

Then there’s a knock on the door to the antechamber. Ash goes to open it, but it swings open before he can reach it, and Sam comes in, trailed by Andy, Ruby, and Meg.

“You’re all right?” Sam says, eyes looking Dean over rapidly.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Dean answers.

“And these are the assassins?” Sam asks, looking down at the two bound, unconscious men.

“Yes.”

“We should have them escorted to separate dungeons,” Sam says, and Dean nods.

Ash, Andy, Inias, and Samandriel leave with the two men in tow, but Dean can’t bring himself to focus on them. He paces back and forth along the length of the room, and then the door opens again, this time to admit Adam, who is accompanied by Anna, Kate, and Jake.

“I ran into your servants on the way here,” Adam says, looking at Dean worriedly. “They said they were taking the assassins down to the dungeons. Was anyone hurt?”

“Only Cas,” Dean says without stopping his pacing.

“What—will she be all right?” Adam asks.

Dean stops and fixes Adam with an unhappy look. “If I knew the answer to that question, I would not be here right now.”

Adam says nothing more, moving to stand beside Sam.

“If you’re so worried, you can go inside and attend to her,” Sam says.

Dean hesitates. “You two go down to the dungeons and check if the men are awake. If not, leave Inias down there to alert us when they do wake. If they are… Sam, you—”

“I can question them,” Sam says. “Should we alert the knights?”

Dean considers this for a moment before nodding. “The Tarcaelians are coming to visit soon, and we don’t want anything else to go wrong before then. I want Victor and Gordon to interrogate the night guard and see if any shifts have been changed. If there is anyone here whose loyalty to the crown is in question, we need to find him.”

“Jake, go to Victor and Gordon with Dean’s orders,” Adam says. “And… we should tell Garth and Caleb about what happened, right?”

“Yes,” Dean answers. “If they want to help Victor and Gordon, they can.”

“Go on, then, Jake,” Adam says. His personal servant exits the room. “And I guess Sam and I will leave now, too,” he adds to Dean. “Do you need Kate or Ruby?”

Dean shakes his head. “Take them with you. I’ll send Meg or Anna with any news about Cas.”

“I’m sure she’ll be all right,” Sam says, reaching out to give Dean’s shoulder a light squeeze.

Sam and Adam leave, and Dean is left in the antechamber with Cas’s two maids. He turns to go back into the room and holds the door open to let the girls in as well—he knows that they care very much about their mistress.

Castiel lies on her back, her head supported by a pillow and her lower half covered by the blanket. Her shift has been pulled up to expose her stomach and lower ribcage, which are peppered with a number of bruises, so dark against her pale skin. Dean clenches his fist at the sight of them and suppresses the impulse to go straight down to the dungeons now and run both those men through. Someone must have sent those assassins, and if the culprit discovers that they failed, he can just as easily send more.

“How is she?” Dean asks, approaching the bed.

“I’m afraid two of her ribs are cracked, and three broken,” Elkins says, turning toward Dean. He has a small bowl in his hands and is mixing some sort of paste inside it. “The rest of her body seems to have suffered little, though I will have to wait for her to wake to ask if she feels any other discomfort.”

“There is no chance of death, then,” Dean says.

“No,” Elkins confirms, and Dean lets out a sigh of relief.

“What is that for?” he asks, looking down at the bowl of paste.

“It is a salve, for her ribs. I have done my best to set the broken ones straight—they are both on her right side. The cracked ribs are two on the left, one on the right. She should not move around without assistance for at least three weeks, and after that she must still be careful. Broken ribs can take anywhere between one month or two to heal correctly.”

Dean nods and moves past Elkins to look down at Cas. “When will she wake?” he asks.

“I cannot say,” Elkins responds. “If she was near death by strangulation, it may be some time.”

“Then give me an estimate.”

Elkins pauses for a while, and the only sound in the room is that of the spoon in the mixing bowl. Finally the physician says, “I believe she should wake by the evening. If she has not regained consciousness by then, there might be a problem.”

Dean hates dealing in uncertainty, but he realizes that it is unavoidable when it comes to recovering from injuries, so he doesn’t press for a clearer answer, only looks down at Cas and runs a hand through her hair. “You had better do your best to make sure she wakes,” he says.

“Of course, sire.”


	9. Chapter 9

The assassin whom Dean stabbed in the back manages to survive his injuries, but only just—he suffered a punctured lung and breathes raggedly, but he clings stubbornly to life. Dean wants to kill him, but it is better that he lives, because it means they have an extra man to question.

“Who sent you?” is the first question Dean asks in the afternoon.

He is starting out with the man who is in better health—the one who was not stabbed. Adam is here with Dean, as are Inias and Jake. Ash and Samandriel are staying aboveground in Dean’s chamber with Meg, Jo, and Anna to watch over Cas. Dean’s knights reported earlier that the night guard had not deviated, and the assassins must have found their way past them without any inside help. It is not so difficult to believe. In the past, Dean himself has managed to slip in and out of the castle walls without being seen.

As expected, the man doesn’t answer Dean’s question.

“I don’t have to ask nicely, you know,” Dean says. “If you don’t cooperate, I won’t hesitate to take a blade to you myself.”

“We do not fear pain, nor death.”

“Yeah?” Dean says. He steps into the cell and picks up a knife. “We’ll see about that.”

The man is restrained with chains, bound to a cross with his arms spread to either side of him. Instead of going for his face or torso, Dean takes the man’s right hand.

Ordinarily, Dean doesn’t like torturing people. Under normal circumstances, he would start with something less intense—maybe a beating, or a whipping. But his wife’s life has been threatened, and Dean feels not only the necessity, but the _desire_ to make the culprits feel his wrath.

The assassin has his hand curled into a fist, so Dean nods to Inias. The servant steps closer obediently, and Dean pries the assassin’s hand open, has Inias hold it still for him. Then Dean takes the man’s thumb between his own thumb and forefinger and lifts his knife, gently presses the tip of the blade under his fingernail. The man grits his teeth when Dean exerts more pressure. Dean keeps it slow, draws out the pain until he gets a whimper out of the assassin.

“So you don’t fear pain, is that it?” Adam says.

“I do not fear it—that does not mean I do not feel it,” the assassin grits out.

“I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth unless it is the name of the person who sent you,” Dean snaps. He presses the knife in deeper, and this is one of his least favorite forms of torture because he can see the blade under the nail, piercing the nail bed, can see the blood under the surface, welling around the tip of the blade.

He withdraws the blade, and the assassin lets out a sigh of relief. When Dean looks over, he sees that a tear has slipped from the man’s eye and that his lip is swollen from being bitten.

“Stay here,” Dean says to Inias before returning to the table containing his tools and opening up a small wooden case. From within he picks up a pincushion. “I take it you’re intelligent enough to know what these will be used for,” he says, turning to the assassin.

“I know.”

“And still you refuse?” The assassin glares at Dean silently, defiantly, and Dean shrugs, crossing the cell to stand beside Inias. “To be completely honest, I’d hoped you would,” he says, removing a needle from the pincushion.

Without giving the assassin time to respond, Dean shoves the needle under the nail of the man’s right forefinger. Inias shifts his grip to give Dean access to the other fingers, forcibly holding them still as the man tenses up. Dean presses the second needle into the assassin’s middle finger, moving on until each of the fingers on his right hand has a needle inserted under the nails. The thumb is left ‘til last, and from the way the man jerks and attempts unsuccessfully to stifle a cry, this one hurts the most.

“Who are you working for?” Dean demands.

There is still no response, not even when Dean goes back and twists the needles, pushing each one of them farther into the assassin’s flesh.

“Other side,” he says to Inias.

Cas’s servant walks around to the other side of the assassin and preemptively takes his hand, spreading his fingers out for Dean.

“After this, we have one of two options, and I’ll even let you choose which. If you choose the first, I’ll go back and remove all the fingernails from your right hand,” Dean says. “And if you choose the second, we’ll remove your shoes, and I’ll repeat what we just did to your right hand on each of your feet.”

“Threaten me all you want,” the assassin says. “It won’t get you your answers.”

When all five needles have slid into place on the assassin’s left hand, Dean has to admit he has a very high tolerance for pain. The assassin doesn’t give a preference, so Dean picks up a pair of pliers, returns to the man’s right hand, and pushes down on the needles at random.

“Tell me who sent you here,” Dean says.

The assassin only grits his teeth and closes his eyes. Dean motions for Inias to hold the man’s right hand still. He wiggles the needle that is under the man’s pinky nail, creating some room between the nail and the flesh for the tip of his pliers to fit.

“There is still time for you to answer, if you hope to keep all of your fingernails.”

“Fingernails can grow back,” the assassin replies, and though he is trying to keep his voice even, Dean can hear the strain in it now.

“Suit yourself,” Dean says.

He tightens his grip on the pliers and nods at Inias before giving a hard yank. The man screams in pain. The needle falls to the ground, unsupported by the nail that used to hold it in place, and Dean loosens his hold on the pliers, letting the ripped fingernail drop away. The man shudders, and his hand twitches, but Inias releases his pinky and takes up his fourth finger, holding it nice and steady for Dean.

When Dean glances back, Adam has averted his eyes, looking at the floor. “You can leave, if this makes you uncomfortable,” he says to his brother.

Of the three brothers, Adam is by far the kindest and most compassionate. Dean, meanwhile, is the battle-worn warrior, and Sam is the clever-minded strategist. Dean is perfectly aware that Sam would have been the better choice to accompany him in extracting answers from these two men, but Sam is also much more effective aboveground, where he is taking over Dean’s duties—meeting with today’s set of noblemen.

Adam hesitates for a moment before saying, “I will visit Castiel for you, then.”

Dean nods. “Thank you.”

He waits until Adam and Jake have left before turning back to the assassin to continue his work. He takes his time wiggling the needle around under the assassin’s fourth fingernail, and when he’s ready, he slips one tip of the pliers under the nail.

“Would you like to reconsider?”

The assassin only grunts in reply, so Dean begins to pull. But instead of taking the nail off in one quick motion, Dean only uses half the force he used last time, so that the nail doesn’t come off cleanly, and this time the assassin shrieks in startled pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean notices Inias flinching, and it occurs to him that he never even asked if the servant was squeamish.

“How about now?” Dean says to the assassin.

“It was the king—the king—” the assassin babbles.

“Which king?” Dean asks, and he pulls the nail the rest of the way off—at this point, it would be more painful for the nail to stay attached.

The assassin cries out, tears leaking down his face, and Dean waits for him to answer. “Tarcaelian,” he finally says in a low voice. “I am Tarcaelian.”

Dean stares at Inias and sees genuine surprise flash in his eyes before it is masked, tucked away behind his default expression. Then he says to the assassin, looking for confirmation, “King Zachariah of Tarcaelius is the one who sent you?”

“Yes. He is the one,” the assassin says without hesitation.

“You received the orders from him directly?”

“Yes.”

Dean looks back at Inias and is met with a bland expression. He raises his voice. “Guards!”

Two sentries enter the room promptly. “Yes, sire?” one says.

“Keep a close watch on this man. Don’t allow himself to escape or to commit suicide,” Dean orders. “I will return shortly.”

The sentries bow their heads as Dean walks past them. Inias follows him silently, and they wind through the maze of cells for about a minute as Dean thinks. Then he turns right and into a vacant cell—no one will think to look for them inside, and he intends to question Inias where no one will hear.

He turns around and sees Inias looking fixedly at the ground. “Well?” Dean says expectantly.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand the question,” Inias says quietly in a tone that’s strangely similar to Cas’s, and Dean’s mind automatically flashes back to the day they met, remembers that she’d said the very same words. If nothing else is true, Dean knows with absolute certainty that Inias really has been serving Cas for a long time if he’s even picked up her phrases.

“You have nothing to say about all this?” Dean says. “Your king was just accused of plotting to kill me—shouldn’t you have an opinion?”

“The assassin was lying,” Inias says. He says it with conviction, as though he knows it to be a fact, and Dean has to know—

“How can you know that?”

“I cannot speak ill of the king,” Inias says.

“You’re not even one of his subjects anymore. Speak freely,” Dean says irritably.

After a pause, Inias glances up at Dean. When he sees Dean’s face, his gaze immediately returns to the ground. “It is no secret to anyone who worked—works—anywhere near the palace that the king is not fond of his nieces and nephews. But he would never attempt something so blatant. The former King Charles disappeared easily enough, as did former Princes Michael, Lucifer, and Gabriel. He has no reason to take such an obvious approach.”

Dean blinks a few times. “What you’re implying… is that—is that common knowledge, too?”

“It is only spoken of in whispers in Tarcaelius. No one dares risk treason by voicing such thoughts.”

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever heard of such treachery—not in the recent past, at least. A man kills his brother to usurp the throne and banishes the eldest princes to secure his status. It seems to be the stuff of stories. Dean doesn’t know how much of this he can believe—he’ll have to speak to Cas.

Until then, he has to find a way to determine who is threatening his life. “So what you’re saying is that Zachariah is too devious to take us on directly,” he says.

Inias nods. “Therefore, the assassin is lying. I know this to be true.”

“Is there any way you can prove it?” Dean asks.

“I… I am uncomfortable with procuring the evidence necessary,” Inias says. “I am only a servant—if you want your evidence to stand strong against the scrutiny of the nobles, you will need a Tarcaelian of higher birth to question him.”

“We’re not in Tarcaelius,” Dean says. “We don’t put as much stock in nobility.”

“Perhaps you as an individual do not, Highness, but it is impossible that all the members of your court share your views.”

Dean huffs, frustrated. “If I command you to conduct an interrogation, you can’t refuse.”

“No,” Inias says, “but the information I find will not be as incontrovertible as that a noble would extract.”

“Okay,” Dean says, running a hand through his hair. “That means Samandriel and Meg and Anna are out of the question, too. Is that what you’re saying?” Inias nods, and Dean shakes his head. “Cas… I don’t want Cas down here, interrogating people.”

“Her Highness has surprising strength of will. She could accomplish it, if you let her.”

Dean shakes his head again. “I’d rather not.”

Inias looks down. “If you do not trust her, perhaps—”

“It’s not that I don’t trust her,” Dean interrupts, even as he reminds himself—completely unhelpfully—that his recent actions definitely imply a lack of trust in her. He’s had Ash tailing both of her servants, and when she left the castle, he went out himself in search of her. Of course, he went to ensure her safety, but Inias doesn’t know that.

Looking at the servant now, Dean wonders how much he knows—he’s been evading Dean’s eyes, as always, and for the first time Dean considers the possibility that on top of being respectful, he’s hiding his thoughts. When Dean interrupted him, he lifted his eyes for a moment, as though surprised, which means he suspects that Dean doesn’t trust Cas.

He knows that Inias’s loyalty will always lie with Cas, so he should mind what he says—he’s sure that anything suspect will be related directly to Cas. “Do you think I don’t trust her?” he asks quietly.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Dean considers this. Judging by the way he speaks, Inias seems fairly well-educated. Servants in general are uneducated and know very little of anything, but in the past minute of conversation with the man, Dean knows that this is not the case for Inias. He, like Cas, is smarter than he rightly should be.

“You must have thoughts,” Dean finally says. He wonders if Inias is keeping silent for Cas’s sake, or if he has his own suspicions that he doesn’t dare voice.

“Every human has thoughts,” Inias says evenly.

“Then tell me yours,” Dean says.

“My thoughts are unimportant.”

“No, they’re not,” Dean says. When Inias remains silent, Dean says sternly, “I asked you a question. I expect you to answer it.”

“My views do not represent those of Her Highness,” Inias says. “If your wish is to discover her thoughts through me, your efforts will be for naught.”

“Don’t avoid the question.”

“I believe you are wary of her,” Inias finally says, in a low but firm voice. “You wish to know my thoughts, so my thoughts you will hear. I am not blind, nor am I absentminded. I know that your manservant has been trailing Samandriel and me.”

“You—”

“Yes,” Inias says before Dean can finish his question. “I noticed four days ago. And no, I have said nothing to Samandriel.”

“And to Cas?”

“Not one word.”

Dean ducks his head a little, trying to catch the servant’s eye. “Look me in the eye and answer.”

Inias’s gaze flicks up to Dean’s, and he says, steadily, “I have not spoken of this to Her Highness.”

In the time that Cas has been in Laurentia, Dean hasn’t thought much of Inias—he’s been quiet and consistent, reliable in the way that a shadow is, almost always two steps behind Cas, but he hasn’t shown any outstanding qualities that might set him apart from any other castle guard. Now, though, Dean feels that he’s underestimated Inias, mistaken reticence for ignorance.

“Why should I believe you?”

“There is no reason for you to believe me. I have no proof, only my word, which, as I’ve said, means very little.” Inias keeps a steady gaze on Dean as he says this, and hell, trying to read this man is about as easy as punching through a rock wall with bare fists—impossible.

Dean rubs his forehead. “This isn’t the important issue right now,” he says, “but this isn’t over—we will finish our discussion later.”

“As you wish.”

Dean takes a deep breath and tries to refocus. He needs a Tarcaelian to interrogate the assassin, and Inias claims that his credibility won’t stand against the nobles’ judgment.

Well, Dean’s the king—technically, anything he chooses to believe must be accepted as the truth. But he sees Inias’s point. He’s never liked dealing with the nobles, but in his years on the throne, he _has_ learned about how they think and how best to handle them. If he acts solely based on a servant’s words, they’ll be unsatisfied.

And then a solution occurs to him—“Ellen,” he murmurs.

That’s _perfect_. Ellen’s Tarcaelian. Surely she’ll be able to get whatever proof they need, and she’s been living in Laurentia long enough that the nobles won’t be able to challenge her word.

“Would you like me to summon her?” Inias asks.

“Yes, send her down. On your way back, stop by the throne room and tell Sam our results so far. If he has anything to say, relay his message back to me.”

Inias bows his head. “Yes, sire.”

The servant departs, and Dean heads back down the corridor. He walks past the interrogation room and toward the cell in which the more severely injured assassin is being kept.

He knows he’s close when he starts to hear the faint echoes of shuddery breathing, punctuated now and then by a hacking cough. Dean reaches the cell door and looks back and forth between the sentries.

“How is he?”

“Hasn’t changed,” the guards say.

Dean looks between the bars in the window of the cell door and confirms that the assassin hasn’t changed position, is still lying on his back, eyes closed and hands clasped across his chest. “Report any changes to me,” he says before turning back the other way.

“Yes, sire,” the guards chorus as he leaves.

Dean returns to the hall in front of the interrogation room but does not enter, opting instead to wait for Ellen to arrive so that he can discuss her approach with her before she starts. A few minutes pass, and Dean spends the time thinking about his conversation with Inias.

How much of what he said can Dean believe? Is there any way for Dean to find out whether or not Inias told Cas about Dean’s suspicions? He supposes there should be some way to test Cas and find out whether or not she knows, but he cannot think of one right now. But even without knowing of Dean’s actions, does Cas think Dean trusts her? He thinks back on their interactions in the past few days and knows that they’ve been civil but not close. He honestly has no reason to trust her, truth be told.

And yet, Dean finds that deep down, he does. It is something he cannot understand, and Dean wonders if that is what Mother and Father had when they were alive.

Here, Dean’s thoughts veer toward Cas’s family. If Inias is to be believed, then Zachariah cannot be Dean’s ally. Laurentia would never ally with a kingdom whose leader is so perfidious. In fact, Dean thinks he would try to go to war over this, and Sam would probably even support him, despite all of the effort he put into avoiding war.

Then again, Sam must have known about Cas’s family history. After all, he’d been the one who’d tried to tell Dean about it back before the wedding. Dean’s surprised that Sam could work out a peace treaty with someone whose character was so terrible. Or maybe Inias is lying. Even looking straight into his eyes, Dean couldn’t be certain whether or not he was telling the truth. And Dean is typically rather adept at separating truth from lies.

The echoes of footsteps coming down the hall disrupt Dean’s musings, and he turns toward the sounds, waiting expectantly. Ellen rounds the corner a moment later, followed by—to Dean’s surprise—Sam, and then Inias and Andy.

“Dean,” Sam says.

“Sam,” Dean acknowledges. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d see the interrogation myself,” Sam says. “I might be able to offer some insight.”

“Yes, and Sam knows a lot about the current situation in Tarcaelius,” Ellen says. “I left twenty years ago—some things may have changed since then.”

“Makes sense. Wait—Sam, the nobles—”

“Bobby has it all under control,” Sam says.

“Okay,” Dean says, and then he turns to Ellen. “Do you have a strategy?”

Ellen shakes her head. “I’m only going to talk to him. And I want neither of you to say a word,” she answers, starting to walk past Dean.

He steps to the side, blocking her way. “Have you even done this before?” he asks.

“No, but I’ve seen it done enough times, and I know what I’m going to do. Do you want me to help or not? Because if not, there are plenty of other things that I could be doing,” Ellen says.

“Okay, okay,” Dean says, backing up to let her pass.

Sam chuckles as he follows Ellen into the room, and Dean can’t resist whacking him on the back of the head. He deserves it, anyway, for laughing at Dean.

Then they’re standing before the tied-up prisoner, and Dean dismisses the two sentries with a flick of his hand. Andy shuts the cell door behind them.

“What more do you want from me?” the assassin asks, looking straight at Dean. “I have already answered your question.”

“Over here,” Ellen says. “I’ll be asking the questions now.”

The assassin turns his gaze on her for a moment before looking back at Dean. “What, a woman? You think a woman will be capable of extracting more information from me?”

Dean only just manages to stop himself from speaking—if Ellen wants him and Sam to remain silent, they will.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” Ellen says to the assassin.

This time his attention shifts to her and stays there. He looks unbearably smug, and Dean can’t wait for Ellen to wipe that smirk off his face.

After a moment, Ellen says, “List your objective in coming here.”

“I would have thought that’d be obvious,” the assassin says.

“Did you receive the orders directly from the king?”

When the assassin doesn’t answer immediately, Ellen walks toward his right hand. Dean stops himself from stepping forward to warn her, but it turns out that he doesn’t need to—she takes the man’s hand without hesitation and examines the needles shoved under his fingernails, doesn’t even flinch at the sight of the two missing nails. In Dean’s peripheral vision, he sees Sam grimacing.

“I am familiar with Tarcaelian standards of torture. I hope you know what that means,” Ellen says firmly. The assassin nods, and Dean thinks he sees a flicker of apprehension in his eyes. “Then I ask you again: did you receive your orders directly from the king?”

The assassin doesn’t answer, and Ellen waits for one beat. Another. Then Dean can’t help but wince as she grasps the needle that’s been under the third nail and jerks it downward forcefully, making the nail seem to bulge. The assassin screams. Ellen doesn’t let up on the pressure, and Dean can only see her profile, but it’s enough to know that she looks completely unaffected. Glancing to his right, Dean meets Sam’s eyes, and it’s obvious that they’ve reached the same conclusion—women are surprisingly vicious.

“Speak,” Ellen demands, and somehow she manages to be heard over the screams even without raising her voice.

“Y—yes!” the assassin gasps.

But Ellen only jerks down harder, holding the finger still with her other hand. “Is that the truth?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Ellen,” Sam says, and the librarian shoots him a stern look that makes him shrink back. Dean’s just grateful that that look isn’t turned on him.

Ellen finally lifts her hand again and pulls the needle away entirely, and the assassin groans, sagging against his bonds in relief. “Now that you understand, I want you to list your objective in coming here.”

The assassin answers promptly this time. “Kill the king.”

“And the queen?”

“Only if she gets in the way.”

Ellen glances at Dean but continues to address the assassin, “And this was what the king told you?”

“Yes.”

“Directly?”

“Yes!”

Dean wonders why she’s belaboring this point—they’ve already established that the orders were supposedly from Zachariah. He can’t see how it would help to keep repeating it.

Then Ellen holds out her hand. “Knife, please, Andy.”

Sam nods, and Andy snatches a knife from the table of implements, crossing the cell to place the hilt in Ellen’s hand. The assassin tenses as Ellen steps closer to him, but she stops before she reaches his face, lifting the blade to his right shoulder. That doesn’t make sense either, because Dean knows the best places to inflict maximum pain on the human body, and the shoulder isn’t one of them.

Ellen lifts up the cloth on the man’s shoulder, bunches it in her fist, and cuts it away with the knife so that when she releases his shirt, his shoulder is bare.

“What are you doing?” the assassin dares to ask.

“Water,” Ellen says next.

Inias bows out of the room, and Dean jerks his head subtly, silently asking Ellen to come toward him. Instead, she turns so that the assassin cannot see her face and mouths, _trust me_. Sam and Dean exchange glances but say nothing.

It takes a few minutes for Inias to return with a bucket of water that he places at Ellen’s feet. He hangs a rag on the side of it, and Ellen smiles at him in approval. Then she wets the rag in the water and uses it to scrub at the assassin’s shoulder. Dean has just about reached the limit of his curiosity and is preparing to ask a question when Ellen starts speaking.

“Each Tarcaelian warrior who receives a mission directly from the king is branded with a small, lone wing on his right shoulder. A second is added on when the mission has been completed and the warrior has returned victorious,” she says.

Dean keeps his eyes trained on the assassin’s face as soon as he realizes what Ellen is doing—she is proving that the brand has not been covered with any sort of cosmetic. The man doesn’t seem surprised or nervous; rather, he looks as though he’s _too_ calm, like this is the face he uses when he’s still attempting to come up with a bluff.

Meanwhile, Ellen continues, “This continues until three pairs of wings are had on the right. Then the left shoulder is branded for three missions. After the initial six missions have been completed, branding alternates between the right and left sides. The most honorable warriors could have had anywhere from ten to twenty brands in a lifetime. You, however, claim to have been sent by the king, yet you have not a single mark on your shoulder.”

As she finishes speaking, she lifts the cloth away to show Sam and Dean the man’s unblemished shoulder.

“The customs have changed since you were in Tarcaelius,” the assassin claims. “We only take brands upon completion of our objectives.”

“Impossible,” Ellen says before doubt has time to settle in Dean’s mind. “This has been the practice for over five hundred years, since the beginning of the dynasty. It is a sacred pact between warrior and king. No matter what King Zachariah thinks of his brother’s rule, this is one thing that would never change.”

“Nonsense,” the assassin insists. “It is not a denial of tradition but a change, to represent progress. If you don’t believe me, you can check my blade.”

“What blade?” Ellen asks, looking over at Dean.

“He threw a knife at me when he entered the room,” Dean says. He’d also found another blade, presumably thrown by the first assassin, left on the ground between the desk and bed. “I have it here,” Dean continues, moving over to the table and picking up one of the blades. He hadn’t given them much thought, just had them collected and brought down with the prisoners.

He holds it out to Ellen, who examines the blade for a moment. Then she frowns.

“The Tarcaelian emblem is engraved here, near the hilt. It is authentic,” she says.

Dean looks at the knife and sees that there indeed is an engraving on the flat of the blade. He turns around and shows the symbol to Inias, who nods in confirmation. Dean is well on his way to being thoroughly confused when light filters in from a passing torch in the hallway, lighting up the blade in a familiar way.

“Hmm,” Dean says, looking more closely at the knife. “Andy, fetch one of the Scurian blades that was taken as a prize when they were conquered.”

“You don’t think…” Sam says, stepping closer so that he can look at the knife as well.

Dean lets his little brother take the knife out of his hands and turns instead to look at the assassin. He has that flat, blank look again, and Dean says, “Why are you so eager to prove that you’re Tarcaelian _now?_ I thought you were trying to protect your master.”

The assassin has no response to this, and it looks more and more like this has been a setup to frame the Tarcaelian king of murder—or at the very least, attempted murder.

“I think you might be right, Dean,” Sam says.

“Either way, we should wait for the other knife to come,” Ellen says. “Just to be sure before we condemn anyone. The former queen surrendered peacefully, remember?”

“Lilith is anything but peaceful,” Dean says, shaking his head. “I saw the hate in her eyes.”

“She certainly has motive,” Sam agrees. “Her husband died in combat against our invasion. He brought it upon himself by encroaching on our territory so many times, but things must be different from her perspective.”

Andy returns from the armory shortly, sword in hand. He holds it up to Dean, who draws the sword from its sheath. The blade slices through the air smoothly and gracefully, with excellent balance—the Scurians were known for their excellent sword-making, after all, and the weapons of the highest quality were reserved for the royal family and its servants.

Holding the two blades side by side, the quality of the metal clearly matches. Dean lets Sam verify his conclusion before sliding the sword back into its sheath. His hand tightens around the grip of the knife.

“So it was Lilith,” he says, all that suppressed anger starting to resurface now that it has a target. “We’ll go to war over this.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Dean, Scuri is one of our provinces, now.”

“I don’t care. They need to know what happens when they threaten my life, and the life of my wife,” Dean says, pushing past his brother to leave the interrogation room. As he passes by, he gestures at the two guards to reenter the room and continue watching over the prisoner.

“But Dean—”

“Ellen, I want you to check the other prisoner’s shoulder, just for confirmation—guards?” A pair of sentries approach from their station nearby, and Dean says, “Take Ellen to the other assassin. Supply her with whatever she needs.”

Ellen leaves with the two guards, so Dean continues down the hall.

“Dean, _no_ ,” Sam says, hurrying after him. “This is nothing to go to war over. It’s the actions of a single woman seeking vengeance. You can’t just—”

“That _single woman_ was their _queen_. Her actions reflect on the entire group of people,” Dean responds, brushing Sam’s hand off his shoulder when he tries to stop him. “I know you have the interests of the kingdom as a whole in mind, but I honestly don’t _care_ , Sam, and if I want to go to war over this, I will.”

“ _Dean_ —”

Dean rounds the corner and comes to an abrupt stop, almost running straight into Adam. Sam collides with Dean’s back, and Adam stares at both his brothers with wide eyes.

“Castiel is awake,” Adam says before Dean can say anything. “She wants to see you.”

“You should see her,” Sam says immediately.

“I know that,” Dean snaps, but the irritation that had been in his voice moments before is lessened by concern, and this time, when he starts toward the exit, Sam doesn’t try to stop him.

He reaches his chambers in two minutes and slows to a normal walking pace just outside so that he won’t be out of breath when he enters. Then he pushes open the set of double doors that opens into his bedchamber and walks in.

“Hello, Dean.”

Cas is lying on the bed, blankets drawn up to her chest. Her head is propped up by a pillow, and she reaches a hand out toward him as he approaches. Dean takes it without thinking, and it’s unbelievable how comforted he is to see that she’s conscious. That he can look at her and see her looking back.

Dean lets out a short laugh, and it sounds shaky with relief even to himself. “Hey, Cas.”

“Adam said that you were interrogating the intruders,” she says.

“Yeah. I don’t want you to—” Dean starts, intending to keep Cas out of this—he doesn’t want her worrying while she recovers from her injuries.

“We know who sent the assassins already,” Sam interrupts, and Dean holds back the impulse to turn around and strike his brother.

“Who was it?” Cas asks.

“I don’t want you to worry about it,” Dean says.

But Sam says, “Lilith, the former Queen of Scuri.”

Dean turns away from Cas at this and sends a glare in Sam’s direction. “Leave, all of you.” He realizes with a start that everyone followed him back up from the dungeons—Adam, Jake, Sam, Andy, and Inias are all here. They start shuffling out of the room at his request, and he nods at the remaining servants—Samandriel, Ash, Meg, Anna, and Jo—to get them to leave the room as well.

When everyone has left and the doors are closed, Dean schools his features into a gentle smile and twists back to face Cas. Her gaze is steady, her deep, blue eyes grounding and understanding, and he feels something unclench in his chest.

“You don’t have to keep the truth from me, Dean,” she says seriously. “Besides, I deserve to know who out there would like to see me dead.”

“I just want you to focus on getting better, all right?”

Cas starts to laugh but immediately interrupts herself with a wince, and Dean holds out his free hand, but it occurs to him that there’s nothing he can do. His hand comes to a rest on her shoulder, squeezing with what is hopefully a reassuring pressure.

“You should try not to laugh until your ribs have recovered some,” Dean says.

“Dean, believe it or not, I have had my fair share of injuries. I understand what it is like, waiting to recover,” Cas says. “I won’t hurt my chances of recovery by thinking about my attacker.”

Dean nods. Then he asks, “How do you feel?”

Cas hums as she considers the question. Then she answers, “I would be lying if I said I felt no pain, but it is manageable.”

“So you’ll be all right if I leave for a few hours, right? There are some matters I need to sort out, and—”

“Matters concerning the former Queen of Scuri, I expect,” Cas says, and Dean nods reluctantly. Cas pulls his hand closer to her so that she can clasp it between both of hers. “What motive did she have?”

“Cas, I really don’t think—”

“I’ll be bored if you don’t talk to me.”

“I need to—”

“You don’t _need_ to do anything, Dean,” Cas interrupts, and Dean tries to hide his surprise—she typically avoids interrupting or contradicting him, and he thinks maybe she’s finally decided to start treating him like a fellow human being. She continues, “I don’t presume to know anything about customs in Laurentia, but I do believe that your chances of survival would have been slim to none, had I not been in the room to wake you. I saved your life. In Tarcaelius, that merits a thank you, at the very least.”

Her words make Dean feel foolish, and to his chagrin, he feels his cheeks start to flush, something that hasn’t happened to him since he was a boy. “Thank you, Cas,” he mumbles.

“Well, it doesn’t count if I had to _ask_ for it,” Cas says mock-indignantly, and is she—is she actually _flirting_ with him?

Dean responds by leaning forward, planting his free hand on the bed beside Cas’s pillow to brace himself. He presses his lips to her forehead and feels her huff in amusement, breath fanning over the base of his neck. He doesn’t back away, though, slowly kissing his way between her eyebrows and down the bridge of her nose, pausing at the tip before pulling away slightly and dipping back down to kiss her lips.

It’s a short kiss, just a brief, dry pull of lips against each other, but the feeling of her lips pressing back against his is enough to have his heart thrumming erratically in his chest.

“Hmm, Dean,” she breathes when he lifts away, putting a few inches of space between their faces.

And then he gets to watch her eyes flutter open up close, as wide and blue as the fresh, cloudless sky after a summer thunderstorm.

“Thank you, Cas,” he says, and he means it. He doesn’t like the idea of being saved by a woman—it is a man’s duty to protect his woman, not the other way around—but being saved by Cas is something he thinks he can tolerate.

“I owe you thanks as well,” Cas says, pulling his hand up until it rests over her throat. There, she takes one of her hands away. Dean starts pulling his hand back, but Cas holds it in place, hovering over the dark bruises on her throat, and Dean straightens, looking down at the damage written in her pale skin.

Anger resurges as he lightly traces the shape of fingers gripping her throat. “I should have been faster.”

“You were fast enough.”

“If I’d just—”

“I’m alive, and that means you were fast enough,” Cas asserts firmly, squeezing Dean’s hand. After a brief pause, she says, “Now, tell me about her motives.”

“We conquered her—”

“I know,” Cas says, “but if she chose to assassinate you and me rather than continue to fight the war, she must have a personal reason and not just a political reason to hate us.”

“Her husband died in battle,” Dean says. Then he shakes his head. “Her motive doesn’t matter, Cas. She tried to kill us, and she very nearly managed to get to you. I need to make an example of her so that the people know what they’ll face when they threaten your life.”

“What are you planning to do?” Cas asks.

Dean almost responds as he would have before— _I don’t want you to worry about this_ —but remembers that Cas wants him to be honest with her, so he says, “I’m going to declare war.”

Cas’s eyes widen a fraction. “Against your own province?”

“It hasn’t been part of Laurentia for a long time. Clearly, the Scurians don’t see themselves as Laurentians yet.”

“Dean, don’t.”

This confuses Dean a little—he understands why Sam is against the idea, but he’d thought that Cas would like it. “What do you mean, _don’t?_ I’m doing this partly for you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to go to war for me. I agreed to marry you to prevent a war—how can you possibly expect me to want this?”

“I can’t let them go unpunished,” Dean says.

“Not ‘them,’ Dean,” Cas says. “You can’t declare war against an entire province just to punish its leader.”

“Cas, she was their _queen_ ,” Dean says, repeating the argument he’d used against Sam. “The things that she chooses to do affect her people, so if she wanted the best for her people, she would’ve thought about that ahead of time.”

“I don’t care what _she_ feels for her people,” Cas says evenly. “I care about the people themselves. You need to recognize the difference between a bitter, vengeful, fallen queen, and her subjects. The people are happy under Laurentian rule.”

“You can’t possibly know that, Cas,” Dean says, shaking his head. “We took Scuri over a year ago, and you’ve only been here for… hardly a week. You don’t—”

“But Dean, I _do_ know. What do you think I’ve been doing since I arrived?” Dean only shakes his head, so Cas smiles and says, “I’m not a fool. I am not under the impression that you have no knowledge of all the time I’ve spent at the library.”

And it isn’t exactly a surprise that Cas has figured that much out. Dean knows that he isn’t subtle, and he knows that Chuck wouldn’t have lied to Cas if she asked him with a very firm gaze—Dean didn’t tell him to keep their meetings secret from Cas, anyway.

No, what surprises Dean is the fact that Cas would broach the topic so directly when all she did for the past few days was ignore it.

When Dean says nothing, Cas says, “I looked at tax records, Dean. I’ve already studied the records of the past two years for the whole kingdom, and I’m telling you now: the Scurians have never failed to pay a tax so long as they had the means to.”

“And?” Dean says, lifting his chin.

Cas lets out a put-upon sigh and smiles indulgently. “I’m sure you know what that implies, Dean. Don’t be difficult.”

Dean cracks a grin. “But you look so lovely when you’re putting up with me.”

“It means that they’re happy with the current rule and are willing to pay to support it,” Cas says. After a pause, she adds, “You’ll find that I am not so easily flattered.”

“I wouldn’t like you as much if you were,” Dean returns easily.

Cas’s smile remains for a moment longer before fading, and then she says, “Promise me that you won’t go to war over this.”

“What, not so much as a _please_ or a _My Lord_?” Dean teases.

“ _Please_ , My Lord, I beg of you not to go to war over this,” Cas says, deadpan, and Dean laughs, unable to retain any ill humor now that Cas is speaking freely to him.

“If that is what milady wishes,” he answers, and a smile tugs at the corners of Cas’s lips.

Dean leans down to kiss her again, nipping her lips until she parts them to grant him entrance. The inside of her mouth tastes faintly bitter, and Dean remembers that Elkins was just here and probably gave her some sort of medicine to help with recovery.

When he starts to draw back, Cas tilts her chin upward, following his lips, and Dean can’t help but smile. Her eyes open, and finally— _finally_ —Dean thinks he can see some of his own want reflected in them. But life has always been a proponent of cruel jokes, and of course, Cas would only start wanting Dean back when he wouldn’t be able to do anything about it—Cas shouldn’t even be moving independently for the next three weeks.

“I really should go now,” he says. “I won’t declare war on Scuri, but I do need to find Lilith and punish her—you don’t object to that, do you?”

Cas shakes her head. “Not in the least. She needs to answer for her own crime.”

Dean lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief. “I was so worried that you’d make me _forgive_ her.”

“Perhaps if she’d only threatened _your_ life, I would. But she wanted me dead as well, and I’m not a saint,” Cas answers, and Dean chuckles.

“How lucky for me.”

He gets to his feet and lifts Cas’s right hand in his, bends down to kiss the back of it. Her amused laughter fills the space between them as he straightens, followed by a pained hiss.

“Perhaps it _is_ about time you left,” Cas says. “I was doing just fine before you started making me laugh.”

“Goodbye for now, then,” Dean says. “I’ll send Meg and Anna in to accompany you.”

“Thank you.”

Dean exits the room and sees that the antechamber is empty but for Sam, who’s trying and failing to hold back a smile.

“Where did the others go?”

“I told them to leave,” Sam says. “Your servants and Cas’s are in their rooms.”

“I’ll send them in, then.”

“Wait. Dean—”

“I don’t appreciate you talking over me,” Dean says. “I’ll forgive you this time, because of Cas, but if it happens again…”

“Dean, I had to. You were itching to start a _war_.”

“Another reason why I’m forgiving you,” Dean says. Then he frowns. “I don’t appreciate your eavesdropping, either. Is that why you sent everyone else out?”

Sam doesn’t even bother trying to lie—“Yes.”

“Great. Don’t do it again.”

“Don’t give me a reason, and I won’t,” Sam answers.

Dean shakes his head and walks past his brother, into the hallway. “I need to organize a manhunt— _woman_ hunt, I guess—so I want you to finish up the meetings that I had scheduled for today while I—”

“Dean,” Sam says, catching up and putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him.

“What?”

“Before we get to work, I just wanted to say that I was wrong, before. I had reservations when it came to Cas—hell, you know I did because I told you. But I feel reassured about her now. Who knows, maybe she’ll finally make an honest king out of you.”

Dean hides his elation at Sam’s words with an indignant look—he really is pleased that Sam doesn’t suspect Cas of anything anymore, but if Dean reacts positively after what Sam just said, he’ll probably have to deal with more of Sam’s beaming approval than he likes. “Sammy, I _am_ an honest king, all right?”

Sam’s smile suggests that he knows exactly what Dean’s thinking, and again, this is why it’s easier to talk to Adam than Sam. “Of course you are, Dean. Of course you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! I already noted this on my other WIP, but I'll be flying out to China on Sept. 25 and won't be back 'til Oct. 27. I don't know if or when I'll have access to internet while I'm there, so I may not be able to update for that period of time. Just giving you guys a heads-up. Thanks for reading!:)


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel enjoys bathing. She likes the sensation of the warm water surrounding her, likes how clean she feels when she emerges.

However, when the court physician suggests that she take a bath to cleanse the heavier ointments from her skin, she resists—her ribs protest when she tries to sit up, and she cannot fathom having to stand and make her way to the tub, let alone climb inside and allow herself to be cleaned. No, much better to stay on the bed and have Meg rub the ointment away with a wet cloth.

But Elkins insists on the bath, even going so far as to mention it to the king, and when Dean comes late in the afternoon to talk to her himself, Castiel knows that her stubbornness will not win this time.

She remains lying in bed as Meg and Anna make trips through the castle, drawing water for her bath. Inias and Samandriel soon take over, and Castiel asks Meg to attend to her, undressing her painstakingly slowly and helping her into a sitting position. Meg then ties her long hair into a tight bun. Meanwhile, Anna fills the wooden tub with buckets of hot water from the door, where Inias and Samandriel leave it.

When the bath is ready, Anna helps Meg support Castiel to the tub, and they assist her in climbing over the edge of it. She sinks into the warm water with a long sigh and dismisses Anna—Meg alone will be sufficient for the rest of the time.

It feels good to rest against the side of the tub, allowing her muscles to relax somewhat. Each step on the way to the tub had been agony, and Castiel does not look forward to the journey from the tub back to the bed. But until then, she will try to enjoy the warmth of the water as it seeps into her.

Castiel closes her eyes as the slightly rough washcloth is drawn from the surface of the warm water up her arm and over her shoulder to scrub at her neck. The motions are a bit shorter and jerkier than she’s used to—Meg has been bathing her for years, so the difference is extremely obvious.

Castiel opens her eyes, turns her head to the side, and is startled to see Dean leaning forward to dip the cloth back in the water. Their eyes meet, and Castiel gasps and only just manages to stop herself from trying to hide her nakedness from his gaze. Her quick inhale expands her ribcage, however, and she can’t hold back a wince, eyes pinching closed as she tries to ignore the throbbing in her chest.

“Cas,” Dean says, and his voice sounds low and rough, stirring something inside Castiel that she hasn’t felt before. His lips ghost over her temple, and he murmurs, “Just relax. It’ll pass.”

Castiel takes a few steady breaths, and though the pain doesn’t pass, it does lessen.

“If you need me to leave, I’ll ask Meg to come back,” Dean says, placing a hand on her bare shoulder.

It is tempting to take Dean’s offer, but she can hear his reluctance in giving it, so she tilts her head to look up at him and smiles against the pain. “No,” she says, reaching up to rest one of her hands over his, “Stay.”

* * *

Dean enters the room as Anna is leaving and sees the back of Cas’s head and part of her neck over the rim of the tub. He would duck out to preserve Cas’s modesty, except that she’s his wife, and he should have rightfully seen all of her already by now.

When Meg turns, her eyes widen, but Dean is already holding a finger up to his lips, stepping forward. The maid remains still, and Dean sweeps his hand toward the door in a clear gesture for Meg to leave the room. She obeys without a word, moving away from the bath on silent feet. She hands the washcloth to him as she passes and draws the door shut noiselessly after she exits.

Dean approaches the tub, unable to take his eyes off the vulnerable curve of Cas’s pale neck—he’s always thought her beautiful, and he’s seen her neck plenty of times before, but the mere knowledge that she is completely bare in his presence for the first time is enough to have him stirring in his trousers.

He lowers himself to his knees at the side of the tub and leans forward to dip the cloth into the water.

And god, she’s as beautiful as he’d expected, even curled up and bruised as she is—her breasts are perhaps on the small side, but they would still make a good handful and are proportionate to the rest of her slim form. Her waist is thin, her chest still mottled with horrible bruises that are almost painful for Dean to look at.

Shaking himself, Dean pulls the cloth out of the water, up her arm, and over her shoulder to rub the side of her neck—that is where he usually starts on himself. He tries to be gentle, but something about his touch must feel strange to her, because she slowly turns her head to the side.

When she sees him, her blue eyes widen in surprise and maybe a little fear, and no, Dean won’t have any of that. Before he can say anything, though, Cas’s eyes squeeze shut in pain, and Dean doesn’t know how to label the feeling in his chest, but he doesn’t ever want to feel it again.

“Cas,” he says, leaning closer to kiss her forehead, “just relax. It’ll pass.”

Cas doesn’t answer, which might be her way of hinting that she doesn’t want him to be there, but Dean can’t bring himself to pull away.

He eventually manages to say, “If you need me to leave, I’ll ask Meg to come back.” _Please, don’t_ , he silently begs her, but she cannot see his face, and she—thankfully—cannot read his mind.

Dean is preparing to leave when Cas turns her head toward him, lifts one of her small hands and presses it over his, which had somehow found its way to her shoulder. “No, stay,” Cas says, smiling, and Dean feels like he can hardly breathe.

“Okay,” he says, trying his best to bite back a stupid grin. “Okay,” he repeats.

Her smile widens a little, and Dean leans in, kisses the smile off her lips. She turns her head a little more, and that angle is perfect until Cas lets out a pained whimper, stiffening.

“Okay, let’s not do that,” Dean murmurs, pressing his forehead to Cas’s.

“I agree,” Cas responds, and Dean loves this proximity, loves that he can feel her breathing against his lips, that they’re practically sharing breaths.

Dean brings his other hand to a rest on her other shoulder and pulls her to rest back against the tub completely. “Just let me take care of you,” he says, and she only nods in response.

He puts all of his attention into rubbing at her skin, starting with her neck, and then working over her shoulders and down the length of each arm. He presses kisses to each of the knuckles of her right hand, immensely pleased at the light flush in her cheeks as he does so. When her arms are clean, he starts from the base of her neck, this time scrubbing over her collarbones and then dipping lower, to the soft swells of her breasts.

Cas stops him there, taking the cloth from him, and at first he thinks she means to do this area herself, but instead, she drapes the washcloth over the side of the tub and pulls his hand back down into the water. He hesitates, looking down at her face, but her eyes are closed now, and he can’t read her—well, he probably wouldn’t have been able to get a good read on her even if her eyes were open, anyway.

Dean hesitantly cups her left breast with his hand, getting a feel for the shape and weight of it, and he was right—it’s still a good handful, and right now, he doesn’t think Cas could be more perfect. He shifts so that he’s directly behind her and brings his other hand into the water to give some attention to her right breast as well, and as he massages them, she lets out a breathy sigh and arches into his touch.

“Don’t move, Cas,” he chides when she tenses slightly at the motion. “If you strain your ribs too much, you might need to get them reset.”

She doesn’t respond verbally, only tips her head back over the edge of the tub so that it rests against his chest. He kisses her forehead, right at her hairline, and the small smile that graces her face undoes him. He brushes his fingertips over her nipples, and her eyes fly open, lips parting around a quick inhale.

“Good?” Dean whispers, bringing his thumbs and forefingers together to pinch the pebbling nubs.

Cas only nods, eyes wide and startled, like she’s surprised by the sensation.

Dean isn’t absolutely sure of his own judgment, but her reactions seem genuine to him, and that means she truly is untouched, that she likely hasn’t even tried to pleasure herself before. Dean stifles a groan and pulls his right hand away from her breast to pick up the washcloth again. The disappointed whimper that leaves her lips nearly breaks him, and he kisses her forehead again, kneads her left breast gently.

“Another time,” he says. “I need to get you cleaned up.”

“Very well,” Cas says, resigned, and Dean goes about using the washcloth to wipe the ointment from her torso, just below her breasts. She winces, and he gentles his motions, murmurs an apology.

“These injuries,” he murmurs, fingers of his free hand grazing her side lightly, “should be on my body.” Cas shakes her head, but Dean continues, “This pain should be mine, not yours. And I owe you for that.”

“You owe me nothing,” Cas says, pulling his hand away from her ribcage and closer to her face. She runs her finger along the pink line on his palm, the scar left over from their wedding night, and then pulls his hand upward to kiss it. “You saved my life as surely as I saved yours. We are equal,” she says in a hushed tone, lips brushing his palm as she speaks.

“You were right, too, about how to punish Lilith,” Dean says. “I looked through the tax records pertaining to Scuri since its capture, and despite a drought and a poor harvest, they still managed to make every payment. That is more than a few of the most historically loyal provinces were able to do.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Dean. I am your wife, and it is my duty to prevent you from making a fool of yourself.”

Dean blinks a few times, surprised, and leans to the side to look at Cas’s face, and though she’s still hiding her lips behind his hand, her eyes are glittering with amusement. “Are you actually teasing me, Cas?”

“I’m sorry, was that not obvious enough?” Cas replies.

Dean doesn’t even know how to respond. This is what he’s been waiting for—for Cas to open up to him, for her to finally lower the boundaries between them—and now that she’s opened the door for them to really begin, Dean is left speechless.

In his addled state, Dean hardly even notices Cas’s manipulations of his hand until his forefinger sinks into _warm_ and _wet_ , and his eyes zero in on Cas’s lips, wrapped around his finger and sliding down. A groan tears out of Dean’s throat before he can even think to stop it, and her eyes flash up to his, blue eyes wide and perfect and somehow still demure even as she tightens her lips around the base of his finger and _sucks_.

“C-Cas, I don’t think you should do that,” Dean chokes out, and he’s painfully hard now, unable to stop imagining that hot suction around his cock instead of his finger.

Without breaking eye contact, Cas slowly lets his finger slide out of her mouth, and Dean thinks he might just burst into flame on the spot. “Why ever not?” Cas asks, and despite her actions she _still_ manages to sound pure and innocent.

“It’s uh—” Dean clears his throat and starts again, “It’s distracting. And you shouldn’t be moving.”

Cas nods and releases his hand. “Another time, then, as you said.”

“Right. Yes,” Dean says, trying to collect himself. “Can you lean against the side of the tub? I should be able to reach your back then.”

“Yes—thank you.”

She shifts, jaw clenched tight against the pain, and Dean reaches over, guiding her forward slightly and then to the side, so that there is room for him to scrub her back. He keeps his strokes gentle, aware that she was pummeled into a wall and that her back would therefore be sore as well.

When he finishes with her back, he frowns—he hasn’t had someone else wash him in a long time, but he remembers having to stand up when they did his legs. But Cas can’t stand on her own right now—even if she can, Dean certainly won’t let her—so Dean isn’t sure if he should try reaching into the tub to clean her legs or if he should ask her to do it herself. She can’t bend too far forward though, because that would put strain on her ribs.

“Dean, it’s all right. My torso was the main source of Elkins’s concern. As long as the ointments have been rinsed away, he will be satisfied,” Cas says, somehow managing to work out Dean’s thoughts.

Dean moves around to the side of the tub. “I’ll just do whatever I can reach from here,” he says, rolling his sleeves up farther.

Her knees are closest to the surface of the water, so Dean starts there and focuses on his task, trying his best to keep his eyes from wandering. He takes his time, his free hand skimming over her smooth skin after he runs the cloth over it. He finishes with her lower legs and feet before returning to her knees and working up her legs.

As he brushes over her inner thighs, she spreads her legs a little farther apart, blushing prettily as she does. He stops before reaching the apex of her legs and looks up at her, uncertain.

“I can do the rest,” Cas says, and Dean nods, reminding himself that she’s injured and that they’ll have ample time once she’s recovered.

He gets to his feet and turns away, busying himself with retrieving dry a towel so that he won’t be tempted to watch as she finishes up. When he turns back, Cas gestures for him to come closer, and he slings the towel over his shoulder before returning. Reaching down, he slowly helps Cas into a standing position and turns her around to face him.

“Hold onto my shoulders,” he says.

She complies, and he sets about patting her dry, taking care not to exert too much force near her ribs. Now that he’s at a better angle to see the bruises, he notices that they’re even darker than they were yesterday, and he wants more than anything to transfer each welt onto the man who dealt it to her.

“Meg!” Cas calls as he finishes up. “She can help me get dressed,” she says to Dean before he asks.

Dean glances back at the door just as Meg enters, so he catches the surprised pause in her motion before she crosses the room to pick up a neatly folded pile of clean clothing.

“Thank you, Meg,” Cas says, head bowed.

Dean can’t see her expression clearly and is sorely tempted to tilt her chin up, but his hands are on her upper arms now, and he can feel the way she leans into his grasp, relying on him to keep her still, her hands placing hardly any weight on his shoulders—he feels amazed, privileged that she trusts him to keep her upright. So he continues to hold her steady, grip tightening as she steps out of the tub and onto a dry towel placed on the floor. Meg dries her feet quickly and efficiently, and Cas steps into a plain white gown. As Meg draws the gown up around her chest, Cas winces.

“Sorry, Elle,” Meg murmurs, and Dean’s heard them use this nickname for her before, but never when they knew he was awake or within earshot.

“I am fine—continue,” Cas says, voice steady.

Meg pulls the cloth farther up, and Dean lets his hands fall to Cas’s waist so that Meg can get her arms into the dress. Cas doesn’t flinch at all this time, but Dean catches sight of her drawing her lower lip into her mouth, and he guesses that she’s biting down to stifle any signs of pain.

“All right, let’s get you back to bed,” he says—the sooner she can lie down and stop moving, the better.

* * *

Castiel can’t help but feel uncomfortable as Dean supports her across the room to her bed, Meg following two steps behind them because it’d be improper for her to take over. Of course Castiel is aware that Dean is her husband and that he would naturally want to take care of her, but she is equally aware of his status as the king, and it’s difficult to be comfortable with a king waiting on her.

But she remains silent and allows him to sit her down on the edge of the mattress.  He places a firm hand on her back and helps her lift her legs onto the bed, and then he supports her weight until she’s lying flat.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, making sure to meet his eyes as she speaks.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Dean says, shaking his head. He turns to Meg and says, “You’re dismissed. Make sure that Ash, Inias, and Samandriel remember to take turns standing guard.”

Castiel remembers hearing from Inias about increased security around the castle—at the suggestion of one of his most trusted knights, Dean called up some members of the reserve army and stationed them as sentries around the castle. But Castiel doesn’t necessarily think that that is the best choice—adding more guards only adds more chances for castle defenses to be lowered through bribery. Perhaps that has occurred to Dean as well; this would explain why he wants an alert personal guard at all times in their antechamber.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Meg says with a bow. She hesitates for a moment, but when Castiel says nothing, she turns and leaves the room.

“So… Elle, is it?” Dean says.

Castiel smiles. “It is a name that has followed me from childhood.”

“Would you prefer to be called that?”

“You may call me whatever you wish,” Castiel says.

“I want to use a name that you prefer.”

“I must choose one, then?”

“If you could.”

“I’d like you to continue calling me Cas,” she decides. Dean looks surprised, and Castiel says, “I suppose you would like to know why I didn’t choose Elle.”

“Yeah,” Dean admits.

“I suppose it’s because that name is for my family—my Tarcaelian family,” she hastens to clarify before Dean can make an incorrect assumption. “You’re… different.”

Dean smiles faintly and pulls up a chair to sit at her bedside.

“You don’t intend to sleep there, do you?” Castiel asks with a frown.

“I don’t want to hurt you in the night,” Dean says. “I might move in my sleep.”

“Dean, you can’t—”

“Of course I can. I’m the king.”

Castiel considers this for a moment before saying, “What kind of queen would I be if I let my king spend the night sleeping upright? At least have the servants bring in a cot, if you’re so worried about disrupting me in your sleep.”

Dean laughs lightly. “You are a smart one, aren’t you?” he says, turning toward the door. “Ash!”

Ash enters the room almost instantly. “Yeah?”

“Get me a spare cot.”

“A bedroll and a pillow too, I presume?” Ash says.

“Don’t be a wise-ass,” Dean says.

“I would never,” Ash says with a grin as he backs out of the room.

There’s a pause as they wait for Ash to return, and Castiel finds herself wondering about Lilith’s motives. There have been no historical ties between Scuri and Tarcaelius, and Castiel cannot fathom a reason why Lilith would want to frame the assassination on Tarcaelius. After all, if her goal were to achieve revenge, wouldn’t she want to take the credit?

And then something more worrisome occurs to her—if the assassins were able to use some compound, some form of sleeping powder, to put the servants to sleep, why not use the same method on Castiel and Dean? It would have been as easy as lifting a finger to slit their throats in their sleep. Why take the risk of failure—or, more importantly perhaps, risk of capture?

Unless… unless Lilith is not the one behind the attacks. Perhaps she is the one who sent the assassins, but there could be yet another adversary hidden in the shadows, a puppeteer who has yet to reveal himself.

“Cas,” Dean says, and she blinks a few times, focusing on Dean’s face.

He looks concerned, but as he opens his mouth to voice his question, the door opens, and Ash enters, carrying the front end of a cot. Samandriel is with him, holding up the other end. Dean gets to his feet then and pulls the chair out of the way so that they can set the cot down next to the bed. Ash unrolls the bedroll and smooths out the wrinkles, motions brisk and efficient, speaking of experience and repetition.

“Thanks,” Dean says even as he dismisses the servants with a wave of his hand.

Dean sits down on the cot and spins around to face Castiel, and the gap between the cot and the bed is large enough so that his legs fit without any trouble. The concern that had vanished when the servants entered is back now, and Castiel doesn’t know where to start.

“Cas, you looked worried. Something wrong?” Dean asks.

“I…” Castiel sighs. “I fear there may be more to Lilith’s situation than it seems.”

Dean frowns. “How? Her husband died because we were at war. She blamed me, so she sent assassins here to kill me. It couldn’t be simpler.”

Castiel opens her mouth to explain, but she stops—it is impossible that this hasn’t occurred to Sam yet, so is there a reason why he hasn’t brought it up with Dean? Or is Dean attempting to keep her safe from the truth yet again? It would not be unprecedented.

“Is that really what you believe?” Castiel asks.

Dean blinks once, then again, seeming to think it over. “Yes,” he decides finally, and he sounds honest. “I can think of no other reason for her to want me dead so badly.”

Perhaps Castiel should remain silent, then. Sam knows more about the running of this country than she does, so if Dean doesn’t know…

“Cas.” Dean’s voice is gentle, coaxing. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“It is… inconsequential,” Castiel says. “I’m just afraid that she will try again.”

Dean smiles at Castiel. “She most certainly will try again, as soon as she finds out that this scheme didn’t succeed. But we’re going to search for her. And even if she does manage to organize another attack on us before we capture her, we’ll be prepared.”

“I… find that very reassuring. Thank you, Dean.”

“You’re welcome. Now will you tell me what you were really thinking about?”

Castiel lowers her eyes guiltily at being caught in a lie, but Dean moves closer, sitting on the edge of their shared bed instead of his temporary cot, and attempts to hold her gaze. When Castiel dares seek his eyes out again, there is no blame in them, only curiosity and concern.

“I worry that the scheme did not start with Lilith,” Castiel admits. “I worry that there is an unseen hand that pushed her into action, perhaps gave her suggestions.”

“Why?” Dean asks. He sounds patient and collected, not at all skeptical, and Castiel wonders at the level of trust he seems to have placed in her.

“I worry that we were never meant to be killed—that we were meant to survive this attack.”

At this, Dean frowns—“No, of course we were meant to be killed. Lilith is looking for revenge, Cas.”

“Yes, that I know. _She_ wants revenge, but the hidden party perhaps does not,” Castiel says. “Remember the servants—they were made unconscious with sleeping powder, were they not?” Dean nods, and Castiel continues, “I was awake when the attack occurred, so I was able to alert you and defend myself until the threats were neutralized.”

“Ah,” Dean says, brow furrowed. “Why didn’t they use the sleeping powder on us?”

Castiel nods. “I also wonder why they would accuse my kingdom of such treachery. There is no history of animosity between our realms.”

Dean rubs his jaw, his frown deepening. “Well, we still have the assassins. We could question them further—”

“I highly doubt that that would return any useful results,” Castiel says. “If my suspicions are correct, those men will know nothing of Lilith’s other associations—they would hardly be loyal to her if she were taking her orders from someone else, would they?”

“Then… the only hope we have is to capture Lilith as soon as possible,” Dean says.

“Yes, perhaps,” Castiel agrees. She has little experience in such matters, after all, and while she may have guessed at the truth, Dean is still the one who knows more about what to do with this information.

Then Dean surprises her by asking, “What do you think?”

“I don’t think I know enough to advise you,” Castiel says. “You should discuss this with Sam.”

“I will,” Dean says. “I just wanted to know what you thought of it.”

Frankly, she’s worried. The more she thinks about it, the more confusing the situation becomes. She cannot think of a reason why Lilith would want to implicate Tarcaelius in the attempt to assassinate Dean and herself, but she also cannot think of any other party who would want to do that.

“I don’t know what to make of it,” Castiel says.

To break it down properly, she needs to determine what a person or group of people could hope to gain by blaming the attack on Tarcaelius. Perhaps they want Laurentia and Tarcaelius to go to war. Who would benefit in the process? The only other member of the Three Kingdoms is Devia, but if Castiel remembers her history correctly, the Devians have stayed out of wars for the last four or five generations, opting to remain neutral—why would they start conflict now?

“Cas, it’s okay,” Dean says. “I didn’t expect you to have an answer—I just wanted to hear your opinion.”

Castiel draws her lower lip between her teeth and worries it for a moment before saying, “I don’t think I know enough about the enemies of Laurentia to make an informed judgment.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to know,” Dean says. “Don’t think too much about it. I want you to stay focused on recovering, all right?”

“My body will recover whether or not I focus on it. I have nothing left to do but think.”

Dean cups her cheek with his hand. “Let me know if you think of anything useful, then.”

“Of course,” Castiel responds, leaning into his touch. She maintains eye contact with him, and she’s certain she never had preference for any particular eye color before, but she finds his twin discs of green flecked with gold especially compelling.

He traces the arch of her cheekbone with his thumb, and she lets her eyes fall shut. “In the meantime, sleep well,” Dean says.

“Hmm…” Castiel hums, turning her face into his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“That’s what I’m for, isn’t it?”

Castiel opens her eyes again in time to see a surprisingly tender look on her husband’s face. His hand lingers on her cheek for a while longer before pulling away, and then Dean shifts back onto the cot. He swings his legs around to the other side and gets to his feet, and Castiel is confused for a moment before she realizes that he’s going to blow out the candles. The lights go out, and it takes a few blinks for Castiel’s eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“Good night, Dean,” she says when he’s settled on the cot.

“G’night,” he responds.

She lies still for a long while, too restless to fall asleep. She’s accustomed to walking around at least a little each day, and now that she’s bedridden, she has too much energy left over at the end of the day. She listens to Dean’s breathing, hears it gradually even out. The slow, even breaths lull her into a soporific state, yet still sleep doesn’t fully claim her.

Her mind wanders, and after some contemplation about her old home, her brothers, and Balthazar, she finds herself returning to the question of motive.

Why would someone want to make it seem as though Tarcaelius was attacking Laurentia? And why would that person want the King and Queen of Laurentia to survive? Again, the only conclusion Castiel can reach is that the culprit wants Dean to survive and be angry, to declare war on the Tarcaelians—the perceived perpetrators. Could the Devians be hoping to return to the forefront as a powerful force? Could they be planning to take over all the land by weakening the Tarcaelians and Laurentians in a war?

It is unlikely. Castiel has met the current King of Devia—she wasn’t allowed to speak to him directly, of course, but she was in his presence when he visited Tarcaelius two years back. She also knows that he visited Laurentia on the same trip, making it clear that the two were equal in his mind and that he intended to maintain peaceful relations with both kingdoms.

There has to be another explanation, something plausible. Castiel just hasn’t thought of it yet. Of course, she is not omniscient, and there are factors that she must have missed, factions of whose existences she may remain unaware.

But then a frightening thought occurs to Castiel—what if Sam thinks that Castiel is behind the attack? Is it possible? After all, what are the odds that she would have just _happened_ to be awake the morning that the assassins struck?

No, it wouldn’t make sense. She just agreed to this marriage in order to prevent war. Surely Sam knows that Castiel would never want to _start_ a war between Laurentia and Tarcaelius… but perhaps he thinks this would serve as revenge against Zachariah for marrying her off like this. Sam certainly seems to be aware that Castiel did not choose this path happily.

Disquieted by this troubling possibility, it takes Castiel a long time to fall asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: I'm heading off to China on the 25th and won't be back til Oct. 27, so this might be the last update for a little while, depending on my internet access.
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys!

Dean stands at the top of the steps leading to the front entrance of the castle, waiting to receive Balthazar and Raphael.

Dean’s messenger arrived just after dawn this morning with news that the Tarcaelian prince and his cousin were about a quarter day’s ride behind him, so Dean spent most of the morning ensuring that everything would be prepared for their arrival.

In a strange parody of his wedding day, Dean realizes that he’s standing in the exact same place where he’d been when he was waiting for Cas to arrive—Sam and Adam are also to his left, in the same positions. But today, instead of only Jo and Ash standing a few paces behind Dean, Samandriel and Anna are present as well.

And suddenly the reason for Inias’s offer to stay behind and stand guard over Cas becomes obvious. Dean has hardly seen the man since they had that conversation in the cells, and he’d almost forgotten about the unsettling encounter. He still needs to talk to Inias, and the servant’s absence makes it perfectly clear that he’s been avoiding Dean, hoping to escape the rest of their talk.

But Dean turns his mind away from these thoughts and watches as the crowd below parts in the back, the gap opening up until there’s a clear path from the approaching riders to the entrance of the castle. The two in front wear long, blue capes over dark clothing, and their horses are both white. Behind them are three more riders, most likely personal servants, and a horse-drawn wagon.

When the men reach the stairs, they dismount, and the castle stable boys come out to take their horses to be fed and watered. The taller of the two has dark hair and a slim figure, and though his facial features don’t really resemble Cas’s, he looks more like her brother than the other man, who’s blond and slightly stockier. Then there’s also the fact that the blond man’s cape is lined with gold, indicating that he’s a prince.

But as they start to climb the steps up to the entrance, Balthazar—or at least, the man whom Dean believes to be Balthazar—falls back slightly, allowing Raphael to take the lead. Dean knows his etiquette, knows that he’s supposed to address the man of higher standing first, but it looks like Balthazar is letting his cousin take the lead here. Dean can sense Sam tensing up at his side, and he can’t help a flash of irritation that Sam thinks he can’t handle himself. Dean’s been dealing with this life for years now, and he knows what to do.

Raphael reaches the landing first and waits a moment for Balthazar to step up beside him. They simultaneously drop to one knee, and Dean only lets them remain on their knees for a moment before reaching out.

“Please, stand,” he says. “I’ll allow you your tradition this once, but you’re on my land now—I don’t want to see either of you taking a knee again while you’re here.”

“That is very kind of you, Your Highness,” Raphael says, eyes fixed solidly on Dean’s as he regains his feet.

“We’re brothers now,” Dean says. “Call me Dean.”

“If you like,” Raphael says obligingly. His eyes flit away from Dean to pass over Sam and Adam, and he says, “These must be your younger brothers.”

“Yes,” Sam answers for Dean. “I’m Sam, and this is Adam.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Raphael says with a polite smile.

“If I may,” Balthazar says, finally making his presence felt, “where is Castiel?”

Dean forces what is hopefully a lighthearted smile. “Come inside. I’ll explain everything to you.” He turns and takes a step back to let Raphael and Balthazar enter the castle before him. They hesitate for a few seconds before taking the invitation.

Once the great doors are pulled shut behind them, Balthazar and Raphael look to Dean expectantly. Sam catches Dean’s eye for a moment, offering help, but Dean shakes his head minutely—this is something he should handle on his own.

“Cas was injured,” Dean says.

“Injured?” Raphael says, clearly concerned. “How badly? Where is she now?”

“I’ll take you straight to her,” Dean answers, starting down the hall. He hears his visitors following closely as he continues, “She is not in mortal danger, so you don’t have to worry.”

“Forgive me for leaving that to my own judgment,” Raphael says tightly.

Dean nods. “Fair enough.”

The rest of the walk passes in silence, Raphael and Balthazar seemingly too worried about seeing Cas to really ask about the circumstances, and Dean is grateful for the reprieve, for a chance to get his words in order.

Dean enters the antechamber and sees Inias standing guard just within, as he’d promised. Inias’s eyes widen slightly as he takes in the visitors—in the interest of keeping the visit a surprise, Dean hadn’t told any of Cas’s servants about the impending visit, had only informed Samandriel and Anna when they were already out on the landing, waiting for the Tarcaelians’ arrival—and without a second’s hesitation, he drops to his knees.

“Inias,” Raphael says before Dean can tell the servant to get back to his feet.

“Master,” Inias murmurs.

“I heard that Castiel was injured. Where were you?”

“It was not his fault,” Dean cuts in before Inias can respond. “Come—I’ll tell you what happened myself, but you must want to see her.”

Raphael nods, and Dean pushes open the door to his bedchamber. Inside, Meg is sitting at Cas’s bedside, knitting, but the girls’ conversation stops when they see the new arrivals. Dean watches as Cas’s eyes go round, wide with surprise, and Meg quickly puts her work aside and gets to her feet. It almost looks like she’s going to drop to her knees as Inias did, but she steps to the side instead and starts to lift Cas’s torso, supporting her weight.

“Castiel,” Raphael says, voice strained, as he moves toward her. “What’s happened to you?”

“Brother,” Cas says, breaking into a wide smile despite the pain of sitting up—Dean sees the way her fists clench on the sheets, knuckles white, and resists the urge to go to her. This moment is for her brother. “I thought it’d be a long time yet before I could see you again,” she continues. “And you, Prince.”

Dean glances sideways at Balthazar and thinks he sees the prince flinch a little at the title. But Balthazar smiles anyway, and Dean returns his attention to Cas.

Raphael has taken Meg’s place, sitting behind Cas so that she can lean back on him. “Answer me, Elle—what happened to you?”

“It was nothing,” Cas answers.

“We were attacked two days ago,” Dean says. “It is our fault that the castle was not better defended, but the assassins have been captured. I… owe my life to Cas—Castiel.”

“What—do you mean to say that my sister had to risk her life to—”

“Brother, please,” Cas interrupts, resting a hand over her brother’s fist.

“It’s true. I should have—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says sharply, irritation coloring her tone, and Dean falls silent. Sam catches Dean’s eye, brows raised, but Dean pointedly ignores him. Meanwhile, Cas addresses her brother and cousin, “Dean is partial to taking more than his fair share of responsibility for bad things and denying any involvement in bringing about good deeds. As you see me now, I am only a little bruised. If it weren’t for Dean, I would not be breathing.”

“I wager you would not have been at risk, either,” Balthazar says.

Dean wants to be angry with him for his insolence—Dean _is_ a king, and Balthazar is only a prince—but this only means that he cares about his cousin, and no matter what Balthazar feels, Dean thinks he can trust Cas. But despite that trust, Dean can’t help but notice the way Balthazar’s eyes linger on Cas, can’t help the irritation and—and fucking _jealousy_ that that stirs in his chest.

Cas doesn’t acknowledge Balthazar’s words either, instead twisting a little in her brother’s arms in an attempt to see his face. But she winces, and Raphael stops her with a hand on her shoulder.

“I understand, sister,” he says, but his eyes are honed in on Dean, so Dean expects it when Raphael’s next words are directed toward him. “The attack occurred in your castle, yes, but you were a victim as well, and I am grateful that you were able to protect my sister. She is right—that she lives is what is most important.”

Balthazar makes a huffing sound of discontent but doesn’t comment. Dean again restrains himself, because despite what Sam thinks, he _does_ know how to control his temper. He and Balthazar are not—and most likely never will be—friends, but that doesn’t mean he can abandon the charade of civility that must remain between them.

“I am still sorry,” Dean says. “I should never have let her get hurt.”

Raphael sends a smile in his direction, eyes bright with interest, and Dean notes that his eyes are maybe a few shades lighter than Cas’s, not as deep and endless. Or maybe that’s just because of the way Cas stares at people.

“I’m sorry to have to do this,” Cas says, looking around the room—and Dean realizes for the first time just how many people are crowded into his bedchamber: himself, Balthazar and Raphael, Cas, Meg, Sam, and Adam; it appears Inias kept the servants out in the antechamber. Cas continues, “but I would really like a private word with my brother.”

“We’ll go, then,” Dean says, motioning for Sam and Adam to leave the room.

Balthazar doesn’t react outwardly to the brush-off, only nodding before turning to exit as well. Dean steps out of the room and allows Meg to pass by before shutting the door. He turns and sees that Sam and Adam have taken their servants and left, leaving only Raphael and Balthazar’s three servants, along with Dean and Cas’s four.

“I’m sure my cousins would like to have some tea,” Balthazar says. “Anna, if you could…”

“Yes, of course,” Anna responds with a bow, but she meets Dean’s eyes for a moment, waiting for him to nod before exiting the room. Dean’s pleased—probably disproportionately so—by how clearly she shows her shift in loyalty.

“Well,” Dean says, “I heard that Samandriel was once your personal servant.”

“Yes, that he was,” Balthazar answers.

“Then I suppose you’d like to have some time to speak with him. Take all the time you’d like,” Dean offers.

“That’s very kind of you,” Balthazar says. He leaves the room, Samandriel tailing after him. His current servant—servants, Dean supposes, since it would make more sense for the man of higher standing to have more attendants—don’t move, remaining to stand guard in the antechamber.

Then Dean starts moving toward the door, catching Ash’s eye as he does so. “Inias, I’d like you to come with me,” he says. “Jo and Meg, you’ll be all right here?”

“We’ll be fine,” Jo says, and Dean can tell from the tone of her voice that she’s probably rolling her eyes.

“Good,” Dean says. He leaves the antechamber, tailed by Ash and Inias.

Ash follows them for a moment before splitting off to tail Samandriel and Balthazar, but Inias continues to trail after Dean, always two steps behind him.

Dean leads the way to his study, replaying in his head the conversation that just took place in his bedchamber. Cas is almost _cold_ in her treatment of Balthazar. She has a warm smile for her brother, but none of the same for her cousin, and Dean would like to think that that’s proof of her indifference toward him, but what if it is a measure to ensure that he never discovers their secret?

No—he’s already decided to trust Cas. He shouldn’t be so quick to suspect her.

Dean opens the door to his study but stops just inside the doorway, surprised. Sam’s sitting in the chair in front of Dean’s desk, and he looks over his shoulder when Dean enters.

“What do you want?” Dean asks, entering the room fully. Inias follows him inside but doesn’t close the door just yet.

Sam frowns, eyes flicking to the man behind Dean, and says, “It is a matter best discussed in private.”

Quick as always, Inias says, “I can wait outside, sire.”

Sam looks at Dean expectantly, so Dean nods, and Inias leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him. “What is it?” Dean says huffily, taking a few steps toward his desk.

“I’ve been… conflicted as to whether or not I should tell you, but I think the Tarcaelians may have been behind the attack, after all,” Sam says as Dean turns to perch on the edge of his desk.

Dean looks down at his brother. “Why would you think that? It wouldn’t happen to be because the assassins chose not to use the sleeping powder on us, would it?”

Sam looks surprised. “Wha—oh, so you’ve already realized, then.”

“No. Cas pointed it out to me.”

“ _She_ pointed it out to you,” Sam repeats, suspicion coloring his tone.

“Yes. I don’t think it was the Tarcaelians,” Dean says. “We’ve both seen Raphael and Balthazar. They both clearly care about her.”

“True, but we already know that their king doesn’t,” Sam says.

“What about the Scurian blades? The lack of wing tattoos that Ellen pointed out?”

“Set-ups. They could have been set-ups. Hell, Castiel could even be party to it all—she was even awake when the assassins attacked, wasn’t she?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Cas nearly _died_ , Sam. Do you really think she would willingly—”

“She agreed to marry a complete stranger, didn’t she?”

“That’s not the same as risking her life.”

“Dean—”

“You know, I seem to recall you telling me something along the lines of her making me a better king. What happened to that, Sam?”

“Well, I—this hadn’t occurred to me yet,” Sam says. He shakes his head, considering. “Okay, maybe she wasn’t part of it. It still could have been the Tarcaelians.”

“Okay, give me their motive for threatening us like this.”

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam says irritably. “I just know that something fishy is going on here, and I don’t like it. This isn’t just about Lilith. You have to admit that much, at least.”

“Yes, I know,” Dean says tiredly. “Cas said just about the same thing.”

They’re both silent for a long moment, and then Sam says, “I might be wrong about Castiel, then. She… I still worry about how much she knows. Anna doesn’t seem to be especially smart, and neither does Samandriel, but Meg and Inias are both a lot more intelligent than the average servant, and they’re the ones who’ve been with her longer. I just…” he stops and shakes his head again.

“Look, Sam, I know you mean well,” Dean says. “I can’t stop you from suspecting her, and I’ve noted your concern. If you could stop bringing it up with me, that’d be perfect. Now, I’ve got some things to talk through with Inias, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

Sam sighs and nods. “Be careful.”

“I know what I’m doing, Sam. Go.”

A muscle jumps in Sam’s jaw, but he doesn’t say anything more as he gets to his feet and marches out of the room. After a moment, Inias reenters, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

“Sire.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Dean says.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Inias starts to answer but stops himself, and Dean says, “Speak freely.”

“I merely meant to respond that the reason for my avoidance should have been plain to you, Highness,” Inias says, head bowed.

Dean sighs. “Talking to you is like pulling teeth,” he mutters. After a pause, he says, “I believe that you didn’t tell Cas about Ash—about me telling Ash to keep an eye on you and Samandriel, that is.” When Inias says nothing, Dean prods, “Well?”

“I am… surprised,” Inias says quietly.

It’s clear that the servant is still choosing his words carefully, and Dean is so frustrated that he might _die_. “As your king, I command you to speak your mind.”

Inias is silent for at least half a minute, and Dean is preparing to bring out some nasty threats when he finally begins to speak. “I… really am surprised that you believe me. I cannot know what it is that you and Her Highness talk about when you are alone together, but I doubt that you would attempt to test her in her current state. So the fact that you believe me without evidence is unexpected.”

“You don’t think that I’m lying to you?” Dean says.

“I don’t think you would waste that much effort on a servant,” Inias says.

Dean frowns, because he’s pretty sure he and his brothers don’t treat servants badly—he hardly ever puts Ash or Jo back in their places, and he knows for a fact that Sam lets Ruby do almost anything that she likes. But Inias is accustomed to life in Tarcaelius, so Dean supposes it makes sense that he thinks he’s worthless in Dean’s eyes.

“Look, before we continue, I want to make it clear to you that you are important,” Dean says. “I don’t care that you’re a servant. Have you seen me flaunt status over Ash or Jo? I don’t care if they talk back to me. I wouldn’t care if you talked back to me—at this point, I _want_ you to talk back to me.”

Inias nods stiffly. “I recognize that you are a good master. It will take some time for me to… to talk back to you.”

“And that’s fine,” Dean says. “As long as you know that it’s okay to say what’s on your mind. Okay?”

“I understand.”

“Good.” He thinks back to what he’d wanted to talk about and says, “Now, I have a question for you: why is it that you haven’t said anything to Cas?”

“I didn’t think you meant any harm,” Inias answers.

“Really? That’s the only reason why?” Dean asks skeptically.

“I care the most about Her Highness’s safety. The rest is less important. I surmised that your concern about our actions could not be a bad thing for her, even if you… even if you were suspicious of her.”

“Why didn’t you consider my suspicion a bad thing?”

“Her Highness had nothing to fear. I knew that she had nothing to hide, so no matter how long Ash tailed Samandriel and me, he would uncover nothing.”

Inias seems completely confident in his assertion. Dean notes that his hands aren’t trembling in the slightest, hanging relaxed at his sides, and his expression is calm and focused. Of course, these are also indicators of someone who has been trained to hide his emotions, and given the type of life Inias seems to have led in Tarcaelius, it would make sense for him to have been trained to mask emotions.

“Okay, then,” Dean says, accepting Inias’s justification. “Well, I uh, I figure I owe you an explanation for why I told Ash to tail you and Samandriel.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Highness.”

“That’s another thing. If it’s just me and my family, just call me Dean. You don’t need to pull my title out unless we’re in front of some nobles or visiting royalty.”

“Yes, sire—Dean.”

“See, was that so hard?”

Inias only smiles in response.

Dean waits a beat before going on with what he’d planned to tell Inias. “Anyway, the night before I gave Ash his assignment, I caught Samandriel—”

Someone raps on the door, and Dean lets out an annoyed sigh.

“Sam, if that’s you…” he says in a raised voice.

“No, sire,” is the response. Dean identifies the speaker as Samandriel and reluctantly gestures for Inias to open the door.

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“Queen Castiel would like to speak with you,” Samandriel says.

“I thought you were out with Balthazar. Did Cas call you back just to send you after me?” Dean asks, frowning.

“No,” Samandriel replies.

The servant offers no other information, but Dean doesn’t bother to press. If Cas needs him, he’ll go—his explanation for Inias can wait. “Come on, then,” he says, exiting the room and leading the way back toward his chambers.

* * *

As soon as the room is clear of everyone, Castiel exhales shakily and squeezes her eyes shut. It feels good to relax, and allowing Raphael to take all her weight like this reminds her of a time when she was thrown from her horse and had to be carried back to the estate by her brother.

“You’re in pain,” Raphael observes.

“How astute of you,” Castiel says.

Raphael huffs. “You don’t seem as happy to be near me as you did earlier,” he says. “I don’t know what to think, Elle—was that an act?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel answers.

“But you’re not happy with me.”

Castiel hesitates before answering, “It doesn’t—it isn’t important anymore.”

“Anymore?” Raphael inquires, and Castiel nods. “Well, if it isn’t important anymore, you can share it with me. I won’t be angry, if that is what you’re worried about.”

“I… I had reason to believe that you were the one who suggested my marriage to Dean,” Castiel says. Behind her, Raphael stiffens, and that alone is proof enough of a guilty conscience. “I understand if you wanted to ensure your safety in Tarcaelius—after what must have happened to Michael and Lucifer, and probably Gabriel as well, even I didn’t feel completely safe.”

“Elle, I wanted to protect you, too. Getting you out of Tarcaelius—”

“It’s fine, Raphael,” Castiel interrupts. “I am not angry with you, and I’ve had ample time to work out your motivations. But you must recognize why I felt betrayed. You should have shared your plans with me.”

“I didn’t wish to trouble you.”

“And you thought that hearing about my betrothal from Zachariah would have been less troubling?”

Raphael sighs. “I am sorry, Elle. I should have told you before I carried out my plan.”

“You are forgiven,” Castiel says.

She is thankful that her brother didn’t attempt to deny the accusation—she would have been in a difficult position if he decided to challenge her source of information. Castiel believes Anna, but Raphael has taken care of her ever since she was very small, and while he was aloof most of the time, there were still times when he showed his concern for her. So if she had to put Anna’s word against Raphael’s, she really doesn’t know how she would choose.

Then there’s a knock on the door, followed by Meg’s voice—“Prince Balthazar has returned.”

“Let him in, then,” Castiel says, sitting up a little straighter.

The door opens, and Balthazar enters, taking quick, short strides indicative of frustration or anger. Castiel cannot fathom what could have happened to annoy him, but whatever it is, she hopes to resolve it before Dean returns.

Behind Balthazar follow Samandriel and Ash. Meg is about to close the door when Balthazar says, “No, you can come inside as well. And the rest of you, if you’d like.”

Castiel frowns—it isn’t a good sign that Balthazar is asking for more witnesses, but she doesn’t stop Meg, Jo, and the three visiting Tarcaelian servants from entering the room. She recognizes all three of them. The first is Joshua, keeper of the grounds at their estate and former advisor to the former king—Zachariah had seen fit to remove him as soon as Castiel’s father was gone. The second is Donnie, Raphael’s manservant, and the last to enter the room is a servant whom Castiel had glimpsed several times while visiting Balthazar in the castle. She supposes that he must be Samandriel’s replacement.

As the door closes behind the last person, Castiel asks, “What is the matter?”

Balthazar signals at Samandriel, who steps to the side and presses a hand between Ash’s shoulder blades. Ash doesn’t put up resistance, going to his knees easily, and Castiel holds her tongue, waiting for an explanation.

“Samandriel and I went for a walk,” Balthazar says, and this Castiel understands—master and servant have been apart for longer than they’re used to, so it makes sense that they would want to spend some time together. “I caught _him_ spying on us.”

“ _Spying?_ ” Jo blurts out. “Ash wouldn’t—”

“Who are you to speak out of turn?” Balthazar says, voice raised, but Jo doesn’t even flinch.

“Please don’t turn your anger on my servant, Prince,” Castiel says before her cousin can continue. “And Jo, if you could refrain from speaking in defense until we’ve heard everything.”

Castiel hasn’t given Jo any direct orders yet, and she knows that though Jo shows Dean respect, Dean doesn’t require perfect obedience from his servants, so Castiel is relieved when Jo nods in acquiescence. But as Balthazar turns to face Castiel, Jo doesn’t restrain herself from glaring at the back of his head.

“After we discovered the spy, I asked Samandriel if he’d noticed anything out of sorts,” Balthazar says.

When Balthazar turns his eyes to Samandriel, the servant says, “I… I’ve noticed Ash lingering around, but I hadn’t thought much of it until the prince suggested that he might be following me specifically.”

“But why would he do that?” Castiel asks.

“He didn’t say a word when I asked him,” Balthazar answers.

“Technically, you’re not his master,” Castiel says before turning her eyes to Ash. He is looking straight up at her with a steady and guileless stare. “Were you following Samandriel?” she asks. Ash nods. “Why?”

Ash falters, and then he drops his gaze to the ground.

“See?” Balthazar says heatedly. “I demand an answer.”

“Calm down, Balthazar, please,” Castiel says.

“Do you not see that this is an insult? He is your husband’s personal servant, is he not? It’s an outrage that he would put surveillance on our servant—this was supposed to be a marriage to keep peace, but he’s made it absolutely clear that there is no trust here.”

“Cousin, do not forget yourself,” Raphael chides.

Castiel looks back at Ash, still silent on his knees. “Is there a reason why you are not answering, Ash?”

“Of _course_ there is,” Balthazar says. “He doesn’t want to implicate his master.”

“Balthazar, please,” Castiel says, holding back a sigh. Thankfully, her cousin falls silent, but still Ash says nothing. Finally, Castiel says, “Samandriel, please find Dean and tell him I would like to speak with him.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Samandriel says before bowing out of the room.

Balthazar looks oddly triumphant, and Castiel really doesn’t understand what he is attempting to accomplish—does he _want_ to go to war over something as silly as this? Or does he just want to sow discord between Dean and Castiel? If so, he is not the man Castiel had thought him to be.

“Brother, what do you make of this?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know about complete lack of trust, but I find it hard to come to any good conclusion,” Raphael responds, sounding concerned. “After all, it is unlikely for a servant to take action without orders from his master, and finding out that the king’s personal servant is under orders to keep an eye on your personal servant does not bode well.”

Her brother’s words are true. Why _would_ Ash be watching Samandriel? Castiel thinks that her relationship with Dean has been improving, but… could she be wrong? Perhaps he is lulling her into a false sense of security. For one crazy moment, she thinks that Dean might have orchestrated the attack—he earned her trust by saving her life, and there were no casualties. But Castiel instantly banishes that thought. Inias told her about what Ellen had discovered from the assassins, and Dean can’t have sent them.

Castiel looks at the others in the room. The three visiting servants all have their eyes lowered, faces impassive, as is the standard in Tarcaelius. Jo’s eyebrows are pinched, lips pressed tightly together, as though she might lose control and burst into a tirade at any moment.

Meg looks as expressionless as the other Tarcaelians at first, but on closer inspection, Castiel picks up on the way the corner of her mouth is turned down slightly, her eyes perhaps a bit tighter than usual. She’s _worried_ , and Castiel isn’t quite sure why. It’s something she should investigate later, when there aren’t so many other people in the room.

After a tense silence, the door swings open, and Samandriel enters, followed by Dean and Inias. Dean is smiling as he walks in, but as soon as his eyes fall on Ash, kneeling in the center of the room, his smile vanishes, and he looks around the room, taking in the other occupants.

“What’s happening here?” Dean asks.

Before Castiel can answer, she notices Anna entering the bedchamber cautiously and says, “Anna, you can set the tea on the desk. Thank you.” Anna walks through the room and sets down the tray she brought up from the kitchens, and Inias closes the door.

“Cas?” Dean says expectantly.

“My cousin discovered that Ash has been following Samandriel around for some time,” Castiel says, and Dean’s eyes flit back to his servant, though Castiel knows that he cannot see Ash’s face from where he’s standing. She continues, “I was hoping you would be able to explain why.”

When Dean doesn’t provide an explanation immediately, Castiel feels her heart rate rising, feels her breaths coming slightly shorter, because she wants everything to be fine between them—she didn’t know just how much she wanted that until now.

“If I may…” says a voice, and Castiel is so surprised by the fact that it isn’t Dean’s voice that it takes a moment for her to identify the speaker as Inias.

“Yes, Inias?” she says, aware that all eyes in the room—except Ash’s—are on Inias, who is still standing by the door.

Castiel’s personal servant moves through the room and kneels beside Ash. Eyes on the ground, Inias says, “I was the one who asked Ash to keep an eye on Samandriel.”

“What—why?” Balthazar says, perplexed.

“I would rather not say it in front of everyone,” Inias says, lifting his gaze to look pointedly at Castiel. It isn’t difficult to pick out that he hopes to speak with her alone.

“But Castiel—” Balthazar begins.

“I trust him,” Castiel says quietly. “Please leave the room.”

No one moves at first, and Castiel looks around sternly. Meg and Anna are the first to head for the doors, followed by Jo and the three Tarcaelian servants. Balthazar reluctantly turns his back as well.

Meeting her husband’s eye, Castiel says, “Dean, I cannot command you to leave, but I—”

“I’m going,” he says with a small smile. “Don’t worry.” He takes a step forward and taps Ash’s shoulder, and the servant gets to his feet, looking at Castiel hesitantly. She nods, and he leaves the room with his master.

“Would you like me to go as well?” Raphael asks after the door closes behind Dean and Ash.

Castiel looks at Inias. “It’s fine if he stays, I presume.” The servant nods, and Castiel says, “Very well. Stand and explain yourself.”

Inias gets to his feet and confesses, “I was worried about the prince’s motive in sending Samandriel to serve you.” He pauses, but Castiel doesn’t speak and allows him the time to think over his words. Then he continues, “I am not trying to say that the prince would intentionally do anything malicious—perhaps his intent would have been good, but I was worried that he’d given Samandriel the command to do something superfluous like sending out messages of your wellbeing.”

“Why would that be a bad thing?” Raphael asks, frowning. “It is perfectly normal for a man to express concern for his cousin.”

“Yes, it’s understandable,” Inias allows. “But this sort of concern would also be easily misconstrued as evidence of an affair, especially given that the prince gifted milady with his personal manservant.”

Castiel hadn’t even considered the possibility that Balthazar might have separate instructions for Samandriel, requests to report back to him. “But why didn’t you watch over him yourself?” she asks. “Why ask Ash to do it for you?”

“I am typically tasked with your personal safety, so I stay near your person. Meanwhile, Samandriel is often sent elsewhere, and in those periods of time, I have no way of watching him. Ash, on the other hand, is allowed much more free time, so I asked this favor of him,” Inias says.

“How did you convince him to agree to this?”

“I told him my reasons, just as I explained them to you,” Inias answers. “I… vowed that you would never be unfaithful to the king and that Ash could even be sure of that by watching over Samandriel to ensure that he sent out no messages.”

Castiel thinks this over in silence.

“Do you believe him?” Raphael asks her.

Castiel meets her faithful servant’s eyes. “Yes,” she says eventually. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Inias. But I must impress upon you the fact that your actions could have caused a great deal of trouble, had you not explained everything to me. I will clarify your motives to the others, but I would like you to apologize to Balthazar in person, on your own time.”

“Yes, milady,” Inias says.

“Go to the door and let Balthazar, Ash, and Samandriel inside. Tell Dean that he can return to his work—if he is willing to be patient, I’ll speak to him tonight,” Castiel says. As Inias moves toward the door, she adds, “Oh, and bring Meg in as well, to serve tea.”

“Right away.”

Castiel lets out a short, weary sigh, and Raphael gently pats her shoulder.

“You’ll be all right, sister. And if you’re too tired, this conversation can wait until tomorrow. Balthazar and I will be here for at least two weeks.”

Castiel smiles and murmurs her thanks, and then Balthazar, Ash, Samandriel, and Meg are entering the room, and she prepares to face them.

* * *

In the silent antechamber, Dean takes the time to think about what just happened. How could Ash have been caught? Ash has always been excellent at operating covertly, inconspicuously, so unless Balthazar and Samandriel knew ahead of time… but their prior knowledge would mean that Inias had to have told them—no one else knew about Ash.

“It appears you’ve been saved by a foolish servant,” Balthazar says, interrupting Dean’s thoughts.

Dean looks over, expecting Balthazar to be looking at Ash, but his eyes are on Dean instead. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Balthazar smiles unpleasantly. “I know why Ash was following Samandriel,” he says.

“Oh, do you?” Dean responds, keeping his voice even. If Balthazar hopes to get a rise out of him, he will be disappointed.

“Yes,” Balthazar says.

He doesn’t elaborate, and Dean doesn’t want to talk to him anymore, so the room lapses into silence again. Dean tries to pick up his old train of thought, but it takes him a little while to get back on track, and by the time he remembers that he was beginning to question Inias’s honesty, the door to the bedchamber is swinging open.

“The queen wishes to see Prince Balthazar, Samandriel, Ash, and Meg,” Inias says, stepping into the antechamber. He catches Dean’s eye and adds, “She would prefer to speak to you tonight, if you are willing to wait.”

“I can wait,” Dean says, watching as the four whom Inias named enter the bedchamber. Turning to look at the rest of the people in the room, Dean says, “Ash, show the visiting servants to the guest chambers. Anna, accompany them and determine what courses would be best for dinner.”

The five servants leave the room quietly, leaving Dean alone with Jo and Inias. As soon as the door closes behind them, Jo turns to Dean.

“Why was Ash—”

“Let’s not do this right now,” Dean says.

“Well why else did you let me stay behind?” Jo asks.

“I wanted you to stay here in case Cas needs you.”

Jo’s face falls slightly. “All right, fine. I’ll get it out of Ash eventually, anyway,” she says.

“Great,” Dean says. “Inias, follow me.”

They leave the room together, going toward Dean’s study. He stops partway there and heads for Adam’s chambers instead—less chance of an interruption. Inias doesn’t ask any questions, only follows silently.

A few minutes later, Dean lets himself and Inias into Adam’s study and closes the door—Adam, Kate, and Jake all aren’t here, and Dean isn’t exactly sure why, but he isn’t going to question it. He’d originally suggested that Adam take on the responsibilities of meeting with nobles for today while he and Sam were making arrangements for the Tarcaelian visitors, but that task fell to Bobby, who has much more experience and finesse in the area.

Maybe Adam went out hunting. Or maybe he and Sam are huddled elsewhere in the castle, talking about Dean. Discarding these irrelevant thoughts, Dean turns around and looks at Inias. There are a few questions he needs to ask, and he hardly knows where to start.

“Why did you do that?” is what he settles on.

Inias hesitates for a moment before remembering himself and saying, “I would have thought you’d be more grateful that I took the responsibility from you.”

“Yeah? I think I’d be more grateful if I could understand just what was going on in your head,” Dean says.

Inias frowns. “I’ve never tried to mislead you, sire,” he says.

“Dean,” Dean reminds him. “And maybe you haven’t ever tried to mislead me, but you’re still pretty damn hard to read.”

“Please tell me what I can clarify for you, then.”

“You told me that Samandriel didn’t know about Ash, so how could they have caught him?”

“I don’t know. But if you’re implying that I told Samandriel, then you’re wrong.”

Dean tries to stare Inias down, but the servant meets his gaze and doesn’t falter. “Am I supposed to believe that Ash just slipped up, then?” Dean asks.

“Samandriel could have noticed and kept it hidden from me,” Inias suggests. “After all, I noticed Ash and decided to keep it from him—it is not completely unreasonable to suppose that he would do the same.”

“Okay, then,” Dean says, deciding to let that topic go. “So why did you take responsibility for me? I don’t see anything in it for you.”

“I did not act for my own benefit, but for Her Highness’s.”

“Cas, or Castiel. Just—drop the formalities, all right?” Inias nods, and Dean says, “Tell me how this benefits Cas, then.”

“She likes you very much,” Inias says. “I’ve seen how highly she places you, and I can’t let you be brought down in her eyes.”

“That’s all?” Dean says, eyebrows raised. It seems too simple.

“Yes,” Inias replies.

“Explain how you know that Cas… ‘places me highly.’”

Inias smiles, and Dean honestly can’t remember ever seeing this look on his face before. “I’ve lived with her for the better part of a decade, and I haven’t seen her look at anyone the way she looks at you.”

A warm feeling spirals up from somewhere in Dean’s gut to his chest, and he turns away to hide the smile that’s threatening to stretch his lips. “Not Balthazar, then?” he asks.

“No,” Inias replies. “Not anyone. She looks upon her own family with fondness, of course, but it is of a different… flavor, if you will, from when she looks at you. As for the prince… I swear upon my life that nothing has ever happened between Her—between Castiel and the prince. It is at most one-sided attachment on his part, and she has never reciprocated.”

“How can you be sure?”

“As I said, I’ve lived with her for a very long time. In that time, she simply has not shown romantic interest in anyone,” Inias says. Dean doesn’t answer, and Inias continues, “Please believe that things between Castiel and the prince are now and have always been completely innocent.”

Dean turns back to face Inias and says, “Okay. I uh, I believe you.”

There’s a sharp rap on the door, and then it swings open to reveal Kate. “Oh!” she gasps. “Sorry—I heard voices and thought it was just—I didn’t know that it was you.”

“That’s fine,” Dean says. “We were just finishing up anyway. C’mon, Inias.”

He leaves Adam’s study and heads back toward the throne room, bringing Inias with him—Dean can’t in good conscience let Bobby do his job for him all day. He wants to go see Cas again, but he should let her have more time with her family, and he’ll be able to see her at night anyway.

* * *

Raphael insists on taking his meals with Castiel, so at dinnertime—a little after dinnertime really, since Castiel’s conversation with Balthazar ended up taking longer than expected—the servants move a small, round table into the bedchamber. Meg and Anna attend to Castiel’s needs carefully, but Raphael still insists on filling her soup bowl himself, something he hasn’t ever done for her before.

Throughout the meal and for the rest of the afternoon, Castiel relays the details of her stay thus far in Laurentia. She tells them her impressions of the servants, of Sam, Dean, and Adam—though in this area she chooses to hold some of her judgments back, because there are some things that the brothers deserve to keep secret. She tells them about Chuck the historian, Ellen the librarian and how she is actually Tarcaelian, and Richard the cook.

In return, Balthazar and Raphael have little to say. Not much has changed since Castiel left, though Raphael says smiles are harder to come by without her around. At this, Castiel can only manage a small, sympathetic smile. There is little she can say, especially now that she knows Raphael was the one to suggest the marriage in the first place.

For supper, Richard brings in a soup himself, stating that Dean is taking his meal with his brothers in the usual place because there are some nobles who have just arrived in the castle who requested an audience with him over an urgent matter.

Castiel recognizes the soup as an attempt to recreate the broth that she had made for Dean on her first morning as his wife, and it makes her smile. She had given him instructions on how to prepare it, but she left out one crucial step, because this is a special dish, and the recipe is considered something like a family treasure. It is a valiant effort, but the difference is still marked.

After supper, Raphael and Balthazar wait for Meg and Anna to support Castiel back into bed before retiring to the guest chambers, leaving Castiel alone to rest.

But Castiel wishes to see Dean before she sleeps, so that they might speak, and she would have the chance to tell him what Inias told her. She asks Samandriel to fetch a book from Chuck for her, and he returns with a volume on the history of the capital city.

Anna and Meg have gone to the servants’ quarters and Castiel is already halfway through the book when the door to the bedchamber finally opens to admit Dean. He looks tired and irritable, and Castiel instantly sets the book aside and attempts to sit up straighter. The motion only forces a pained wince out of her, and Dean is at her side in the blink of an eye.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he says, grasping her gently by the shoulders and guiding her to rest against the cushion on which she’d been leaning.

Castiel smiles. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean answers, a smile stretching his lips despite the weariness in his eyes. “Here, let me help you lie down. You shouldn’t stay up so late.”

“I wanted to speak with you.”

Dean pauses at that, frowning, and says, “You should have sent someone.”

“I heard something urgent was brought up during supper,” Castiel says.

“Yes, but it could have waited if you wanted to see me,” Dean says. “Your health is very important to me, and I don’t want you to lose rest waiting for me.”

Castiel’s smile widens at that, but she scoots forward on the bed and allows Dean to support her into a reclining position before responding. “I find that your concern for me pleases me very much,” she says, and if her eyes are not mistaken, a slight flush colors Dean’s cheeks.

“Well, you’re my wife. I’m supposed to worry about you,” Dean says gruffly, hands pulling back.

Castiel catches one of his hands and brings it up to her lips, kissing each of his fingertips in turn. As she does so, she flicks her eyes up to his and finds that he is staring avidly at her lips where they’re pressing against his fingers. “I’m sorry about what happened earlier today,” she murmurs against his thumb.

“Earlier…?” Dean repeats, gaze flitting to Castiel’s. His pupils seem dilated, but it is probably due to the dim lighting.

“My cousin’s accusation,” Castiel clarifies.

“He never explicitly—”

“Perhaps not, but his intended meaning was clear enough,” Castiel interrupts. She knows that Dean can’t deny it, but it is still a surprise when he simply chooses not to say anything. Eventually, Castiel says, “I have to admit I was surprised by your patience.”

“That makes two of us,” Dean responds, cupping her cheek in his hand.

After another pause, Castiel says, “There is… one other thing for which I should probably apologize.”

“What is it?”

“I… I had faith that you did not task Ash with spying on Samandriel, but I have to admit that my faith in you wavered. I wanted to believe, but—”

“Cas,” Dean says, looking strangely conflicted, “don’t say that. Just—” he shakes his head “—just don’t.”

Castiel bites back her planned speech and says, “Very well, then. I won’t.”

“Good.”

“But I presume you want to know why Inias asked Ash to watch Samandriel.”

“Yes, I do,” Dean says, pulling his hand back.

Castiel does her best to ignore how cold her cheek feels after losing his touch. “He thought that my cousin might have had ulterior motives for giving Samandriel to me,” she says, looking closely at Dean to gauge his reaction.

“What kind of ulterior motives?” Dean asks, but his tone of voice isn’t right—it’s too innocent, too careful, and Castiel knows he isn’t being truthful.

“You’ve considered this before,” she says, deciding to call his bluff.

He looks startled. “Cas—”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, don’t you? Because you’ve thought about it before yourself,” Castiel says, and she’s surprised by the pang that shoots through her chest, too deep to have anything to do with her broken ribs.

“Cas, I haven’t—” Dean tries, reaching for her hand.

But Castiel clenches her hand into a fist and draws it back slightly as she cuts him off, words sharp, “ _Don’t_ lie to me.”

Dean’s hand freezes, hovering a few inches from hers. Castiel watches as the muscle in his jaw jumps with restraint and is reminded that she _is_ still dealing with a monarch. She wants him to put her in her place, wants him to argue with her and prove her wrong, prove that he never considered the possibility that she could be unfaithful to him.

But when Dean opens his mouth, what comes out is, “Fine, so maybe I thought it was possible that you had had a past with him.” Castiel turns her face away and closes her eyes, but Dean continues nevertheless, “Could you blame me? It’s a big gesture, giving up a personal servant like that. I wouldn’t let Ash leave to serve just anyone.”

“I know,” Castiel says, surprising herself with how level her voice is.

Dean’s hand finally drops to rest over hers, and she allows him to work it out of a fist, allows him to entwine their fingers together. “I’ve disappointed you,” he observes.

“No, I understand.”

“But you’re disappointed anyway,” Dean says. “I’ve been truthful to you—it’s only fair that you do the same for me.”

Castiel sighs and turns her face back toward Dean. “I don’t want to be disappointed,” she says. “You had reason to be suspicious, and I know that, but… you’re right. Despite what I want and what I know…”

“That’s okay,” Dean says, offering a small smile. “It only means that you’re human.”

Castiel smiles back and squeezes Dean’s fingers. “You should get some rest. You must have had a long day today, preparing for my family’s arrival.” Dean only shakes his head, and the smile on his face shifts from comforting to self-deprecating. Castiel realizes that she never verbalized her appreciation of Dean’s effort and says, “Thank you.”

“There’s no need—”

“Yes, there is,” Castiel insists. “I wasn’t sure when—or _if_ —I would see any of my family again, and I am deeply grateful toward you for bringing them here to me. It takes at the very least two days to traverse the distance between our capitals on horseback, which means that you must have invited them before my injury—”

“Cas, you don’t have to—”

“—and that you’d thought of this even before I was hurt. You didn’t invite them here just to comfort me. In fact, you went through the trouble of keeping their impending arrival from me, intending to surprise me, and I cannot thank you enough for that.”

Dean is avoiding her gaze when she finishes, and Castiel feels a bit of sadness stir in her chest. He’s a king—he shouldn’t be so averse to receiving praise. But perhaps her words remind him too much of the sycophantic courtesans who surely attempt to flatter him day after day.

“If I’ve said too much—”

“No, Cas. It’s… it’s all right,” Dean says quietly, but he still doesn’t look her in the eye.

Is it because he doesn’t like to take credit for his good deeds? She’s noticed this trait of his in the past, one that becomes excruciatingly obvious whenever someone mentions the excellent running of the country because he attributes all of his success—save his battlefield prowess—to Sam.

Castiel studies his face while he isn’t looking at her, but his gaze remains pointedly turned away, and Castiel decides that this is a problem that cannot be solved in a single conversation, a single battle; it is a war to be fought out over a sustained length of time, and Castiel resolves to take it on starting tomorrow morning. For tonight, she will back off and allow him his evasion.

But there _is_ something that she needs to say to him. “Dean, you and I were brought together under… under circumstances that were far from ideal.” At this, he finally meets her eyes, but she cannot read his face, so she decides to stop trying. Just for tonight, she reminds herself as she continues, “Despite this, I’d like you to know that I am very grateful to have met you.”

Dean huffs out a laugh at her words and leans down to kiss her. “We really are doing all of this backwards, aren’t we?” he murmurs against her lips.

As Dean backs up, Castiel smiles, hoping to convey some light flirtation. “Well, you have plenty of time to court me properly while I recover,” she says.

Dean breaks into a broad grin, and Castiel is proud of herself for putting that expression on his face. “I’ll do my best to win you over, then.”

“I expect nothing less,” Castiel replies.

A moment passes in which they exchange wide, giddy smiles, and then Dean gets to his feet to move his cot from the corner of the room. He blows out the candles before returning to the bedside and getting on the cot.

“Good night, Cas,” he says after shifting to get comfortable.

“Good night.”

Castiel sleeps exceptionally well that night.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to have kept you guys waiting! It's just that I hadn't finished Ch. 12 when I posted Ch. 11, and I typically like to have at least three chapters' worth of a buffer between what I'm writing and what I'm posting. That and I've been unofficially treating the first eleven chapters as the "first half" of this fic. This and the next chapter serve as a turning point leading into the "second half" of the fic. I put quotation marks around the halves because I really don't know whether it'll actually split down the middle at Ch. 11, lengthwise.
> 
> Anyway, I've gotten a few chapters lined up now, so I should be back to one chapter a week:) Happy reading!

“Sammy, I’m not going to command you to do it, and you know I won’t beg, but I’d appreciate it if you helped me out anyway.”

Sam lets out a put-upon sigh. “Isn’t it enough that I take care of half your burden? I don’t want to spend my day with those stuffy nobles.”

“Yes, because you’d rather spend your day in your stuffy little study.”

“Precisely.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“How? You have to tell me how up front.”

“I’m asking you to cover me for an hour, not sell your soul,” Dean says. Sam just folds his arms across his chest, and Dean says, “Fine. If you trust Cas enough, I’ll delegate your tasks to her for a day and give you the time off. You can go for a hunt, visit the parents, whatever you want.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “You said it.” Dean nods, and Sam says, “All right, go. I’ll take over for you.”

Dean grins and leaves the throne room, Ash trailing behind him. “You have dinner and the afternoon off,” Dean tells Ash as he goes down the hall.

“Great. Where are _you_ going?” Ash asks.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Dean says.

“Y’know, it actually is, seeing as I’m your bodyguard.”

“Is that treason I hear?”

“Okay, then,” Ash says with a shrug. He turns left to go toward Dean’s chambers, while Dean goes in the opposite direction, toward the kitchens.

In the first room, Dean gets a pot and starts boiling tea. Ben, one of the servants in the kitchen, offers to get Richard for him, but Dean waves the kid away and says that he’ll find the head cook himself.

As usual, Dean hears Richard before he sees him—this time he’s back by the ovens, telling someone, “The time isn’t right yet.”

“How much longer will we have to wait?” someone asks, and Dean thinks he recognizes the voice as Meg’s.

“You have to be patient. I’ve waited for years,” Richard responds.

“What’re we waiting for?” Dean asks, rounding the corner.

“Oh! Your Highness,” Richard says, startled, and Dean sees that he was right—Meg is the other person here. “There are some pies in the oven. Meg is here to fetch one for the queen.”

“Oh. You’re dismissed, then,” Dean says to Meg.

“What? But why?”

“I was about to bring some tea up to her anyway, so I’ll just get the pie as well,” Dean says. Meg frowns but doesn’t question him, leaving without another word.

“Thoughtful of you,” Richard comments with a smile, opening the oven door a crack to look inside. “It’ll be a few more minutes.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “So… you’ve waited years for a pie before?”

Richard just throws his head back and laughs.

* * *

Castiel spots an opportunity and slides her bishop into the perfect position, because this will require Adam to choose between losing a knight or a rook. He considers his options for a moment before shifting the rook over one space.

“You are ruthless,” he comments as Castiel takes the knight.

“Why, thank you—I take that as a compliment,” Castiel responds. This is their third game of the afternoon. Adam won the first one, but not by much, and Castiel defeated him soundly in the second game. So far, it appears the odds are in her favor for this one.

“What made your father decide to teach you how to play chess?” Adam asks.

“He wanted all of us to exercise our intellect,” Castiel says. “It set me apart from the other girls, of course, and as a child, I resented him for it. I’m grateful now, but… well, he’ll never know, now.”

“I’m sorry,” Adam says, looking up from the board.

“It’s fine,” Castiel answers with a small smile. “I’ve made peace with him in my heart.”

Adam turns his attention back to the chessboard and slides his rook across the board to threaten Castiel’s queen. As she’s examining the possible moves she can make—the way the pieces are currently positioned, she can’t move the queen anywhere without exposing the king—there’s a knock on the door to their chambers.

Before Castiel can say anything, the door swings open, and Dean enters with two trays, one balanced in each hand. Anna instantly stirs from her place at Castiel’s side, going to take the trays from Dean.

“Anna, just take the pie. Dean can serve us the tea,” Castiel says. She only just manages to stop herself from laughing at the incredulous look on Dean’s face, but Adam doesn’t show the same restraint.

“Oh, shut up, you son of a bitch,” Dean says to his brother as he sets the tea tray down on his desk. He picks up a stool and crosses the room to put it next to the table on which Castiel and Adam are playing. Studying the board, he says, “Adam, you really are getting your ass handed to you, aren’t you?”

“Hey, she’s the one in danger of losing her queen,” Adam points out.

“Not for long,” Castiel says, maneuvering a knight into the space right in front of her queen.

“Nice,” Dean comments. He goes to his desk to get the tray and brings it back to the table, putting it down on the stool and flipping two cups over for use.

Meanwhile, Adam moves his only remaining pawn one space forward. It’s getting close to Castiel’s side of the board, but she still has one rook that she hasn’t moved, and if he tries to turn that pawn into a queen, the rook will be able to take care of it.

“Don’t you have meetings to be conducting?” Adam asks Dean as Castiel tries to devise a plan of action.

“Sam’s taking care of them,” Dean says, pouring the tea and placing the cups on the table.

Castiel moves her queen out of the line of fire because she hates having pieces pinned down, and Adam leans forward in his seat, rubbing his chin. While Adam is thinking, Castiel takes a sip of the tea. It’s not a taste that she’s used to—Anna and Meg know exactly what combination of leaves to use to suit Castiel’s preferences, and most of the helpers in the kitchen have figured it out as well.

“Did you brew this yourself?” Castiel asks, looking up at Dean, and he nods.

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” Adam says, grinning. He moves that pawn again and says to Dean, “Anyway, speaking of Sam, he came in earlier, looking for you.”

“Yes, he told me. He also said he’s going to play the winner of this game between you two,” Dean says.

“He’ll be playing Castiel,” Adam says. “I don’t think I can turn this around.”

“I’d offer to play you, but we already know you’ll probably win,” Dean says.

“I’m glad that you’re willing to lose,” Castiel says to Dean, sliding her rook into the pawn’s path because she might as well just block him off entirely. As Adam looks for a way to save that pawn, Castiel continues, “Zachariah demanded that we always lose to Balthazar and Uriel, because their lot in life entailed winning at all things.”

“Are you serious?” Dean says.

Years of habit and repression tell Castiel that she should remain silent, that she shouldn’t be saying such things about her family, and it must show on her face, because Dean’s expression darkens.

So Castiel forces herself to finish what she started—“Yes, I am.”

“Were they any good?” Dean asks.

“They weren’t bad,” Castiel replies.

“So they weren’t good either,” Adam infers, shifting a bishop over one space to protect the pawn.

“No, I suppose not,” Castiel answers, eyes on the board. “Uriel played recklessly, and Balthazar… his skill level was similar to Raphael’s or mine, but if he’d had to play Lucifer or Gabriel, well. I’m certain they would have run circles around him.”

“I’d like to see a game between the two of you,” Adam says, looking between Dean and Castiel.

Castiel remembers that the bishop had been preventing her from moving her other rook into position, so she moves it now. It poses no immediate threat to Adam’s pieces, but Castiel has a plan.

“Maybe not today,” Dean says. “I only asked Sam to cover me for one hour, and if it goes over, he won’t let me hear the end of it.”

“Next time, then,” Adam says distractedly, and Castiel is pretty sure he’s still trying to work out her motivation for moving her rook to its current space.

Castiel rotates in her seat to face Dean and grabs his hand, drawing him a step closer to the table. Dean smiles and leans down to kiss her. “Mm,” Castiel hums into Dean’s lips, hands moving up to curl around the back of his neck and pull him down. One of Dean’s hands lands on the table, and the other braces on the back of Castiel’s chair.

Since their first real kiss, Castiel has definitely changed her mind regarding the act. In the time that she’s spent recovering, most of her physical contact with Dean has consisted of kissing—slow and sensual, or quick and dirty, or sweet and unhurried—and she might be addicted to it. She can’t get enough of the feeling of his lips against hers, the taste of his lips and tongue, the way his tongue swipes over her lower lip before pressing into her mouth. She loves the way his large hands feel when they settle on her lower back to pull her close—

Adam clears his throat, and Castiel starts to back away, remembering herself, but Dean’s hand instantly cups her jaw and slides back into her hair, holding her in place, and she’s helpless to resist.

“Should I go?” Adam asks a moment later, and Dean finally pulls back.

Castiel opens her eyes and loses herself in fields of green. She would find it embarrassing if Dean weren’t staring right back, equally speechless.

“You know, Elkins came in earlier to confirm that Castiel is fully recovered and can participate in—” Adam pauses to cough pointedly, “— _strenuous_ activities, so I can leave at any time.”

At this, Dean looks away from Castiel to shoot Adam a reprehensive look, breaking the spell.

It takes a moment for Castiel to actually understand Adam’s insinuation, and then she can feel her cheeks heating up. But she feigns ignorance and says, “Oh, does this mean I can finally go out on a hunting trip?”

“Hunting?” Adam says, interested. “I didn’t know you could hunt.”

“She’s very skilled with a bow and arrow, I’ve heard,” Dean says.

“Only moderately skilled,” Castiel corrects.

“You don’t have to be shy about it, Cas. No one here cares whether or not you’re ladylike,” Dean says.

“Yeah, and you can be a lady and an excellent archer at the same time,” Adam says.

“Bela was not a lady,” Dean says, frowning at Adam.

“I wasn’t—” Adam starts to protest, but Dean only raises his eyebrows, and Adam deflates. “Okay, so I _was_ talking about her. And she certainly had you and Sam fooled for long enough.”

“Who is Bela?” Castiel asks. “Should I know her?”

“No,” Adam says. “She’s not around here anymore.”

“Good riddance,” Dean says, and he and Adam exchange meaningful looks—it seems Adam disagrees.

Castiel looks down at the chessboard. “Did you make your move, Adam?” she asks.

“Oh. Yes, I did,” Adam replies, pointing out the knight that he’d moved.

“I know you don’t like to hear it, Adam, but that girl was trouble, and you know it,” Dean says, and despite her curiosity, Castiel knows that this is none of her business.

“Don’t you have a country to run or something?” Adam says to Dean, and Castiel may be starting her third month in Laurentia, but she still is not accustomed to the amount of impertinence that she sees directed toward the king.

“I’ll let you two play, then. Let me know who wins,” Dean says.

Castiel smiles. “I’ll see you tonight,” she says, winking, and Dean blinks a few times, rapidly. Castiel feels an unexpected sense of triumph at having surprised him, but Dean doesn’t react otherwise and exits the room without another word.

“I’ve essentially lost already, so I forfeit,” Adam says.

“No—you can’t _forfeit_ ,” Castiel says, shaking her head. “Let’s finish the game.”

“I don’t really want to.”

“Are you all right?” Castiel asks, concerned.

“I’m fine,” Adam says shortly.

Castiel wants to pry, but she restrains herself. “If you’d like, we can play again another day.”

“Yes, that’d be best,” Adam says. “I’ll go, now.”

Castiel nods, and Adam gets to his feet, heading for the exit. Anna comes to the table and starts putting the chess pieces back into their places—this particular set has a special case with custom-carved spaces for each of the pieces.

“Have you ever heard of this Bela before?” Castiel asks Anna when Adam is gone.

“No, I haven’t. Do you want me to ask around?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m just curious,” Castiel replies. “It seems this woman had a divisive effect on the brothers. I wonder what Sam thought of her.”

“You could probably ask Dean later,” Anna suggests.

“Yes, I suppose I could.”

Anna finishes putting the last few pieces back and asks, “Would you like to sample some of the pie now, Elle?”

“Yes, thank you.”

* * *

Dean isn’t exactly sure what Cas meant by that wink earlier today, but he feels weirdly expectant when he enters his quarters. He is instantly distracted, though—Ash is sitting in the center of the floor of the antechamber, legs crossed and eyes closed, and Dean pauses.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Meditating.”

When Ash doesn’t elaborate, Dean asks, “Why?”

“Why does anyone ever meditate?” is Ash’s response.

“How should I know that?”

Ash finally opens his eyes to look up at Dean and says, “I’m trying to reach enlightenment. Duh.”

And Dean can’t help but laugh, because Ash is definitely not even close to the first person Dean would think of if he believed in reaching enlightenment.

“Oh, sure, you laugh now, but when we’re all dead and I’m sitting in my own personal slice of enlightened heaven, you’ll be wishing you did a little more meditation when we were still down here.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works, man.”

Ash shrugs and closes his eyes again, signaling that the conversation is over, so Dean walks past him and enters his bedchamber.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, closing the book that’s resting in front of her on the desk. Dean would berate her for staying out of bed so late at night, but at least she has her tan overcoat tied securely around her waist to keep her warm—this winter has lasted longer than usual, and it gets pretty cold at night.

“I thought I told you to have Anna or Meg or Jo in here,” Dean says. “It’s safer if you’re not left alone in this room.”

“Ash is standing guard outside, isn’t he?” Cas replies, waving the book in Dean’s direction.

It’s ridiculous how pleased it makes him to get requests from Cas. She’s independent and typically chooses to do things for herself, and when she doesn’t do them herself, she has one of her servants help her out. Asking Dean a favor means that she places trust in him, and sure, they’re closer now than they were before, but each sign of trust feels like a victory.

Dean takes the book from her and puts it on the shelf that has been moved into their chambers—Cas likes reading so much that Dean decided it’d be a good idea to give her a place to store her favorite books.

“I had a question for you,” Cas says as Dean turns back toward her. “Earlier today, when Adam and I were playing chess, you mentioned a woman named Bela. Who is she?”

“It’s… it was nothing,” Dean says, shaking his head. “It was stupid. Don’t worry about it.”

“Adam is my family, Dean. I’d like to know, if you wouldn’t mind,” Cas says.

Dean sighs. Bela Talbot had visited two years ago, accompanying Baron Lugosi, of an eastern border province. She’d been masquerading as his daughter, with designs to marry one of the Winchesters to gain power, and the baron had assisted her in her scheme because she’d promised some benefits to him.

Said scheme had involved specifically attempting to seduce Dean. Sam had been wary—because really, Sam was always wary—and as a result, he’d convinced Dean to pay careful attention to Bela’s actions and intentions. Unfortunately, Sam hadn’t foreseen Adam’s development of genuine feelings for the woman, and Adam, only sixteen at the time, had insisted upon marrying her. In the end, they’d discovered that she’d had ulterior motives, and Adam himself had agreed that she had to be sent away.

“It’s not something I want to talk about,” Dean eventually says. When it looks like Cas is going to protest, he adds, “I’ll tell you the whole story another night, all right?”

“Very well,” Cas says, relenting.

There’s a brief pause, and then Cas gets to her feet and pushes the chair in. She turns toward Dean, meeting his eyes as she undoes the tie of her coat, and there’s something different about the way she’s looking at him that gives him pause.

Then she pulls open the coat and shrugs out of it. The material slides off her shoulders, revealing that she’s wearing only a white, sleeveless chemise underneath, and god, he must be dreaming.

* * *

He’s not moving. He’s staring, but he’s not moving. Surely that’s not a good sign.

Castiel swallows hard, a surge of humiliation rising up to replace the nerves that have been plaguing her all evening, ever since she decided upon this course of action. She starts bending over to pick up her coat, intending to cover herself up again, but Dean steps toward her, one hand outstretched, and she straightens.

Perhaps she only took him by surprise. Collecting herself, Castiel continues with her originally intended course of action, sliding one strap off her shoulder, and is about to do the same for the other when Dean reaches her and stays her hand. She looks up at him, surprised—she’d expected him to want this.

Before she can ask, Dean says, “Only if you’re ready.”

She smiles and answers, “I am.”

“Then let me,” he says, and Castiel lets her hands fall to her sides.

Dean leans down and kisses her, quick, brief pulls of his lips that tease Castiel until she’s unconsciously stepping forward, leaning up to prolong the contact. His hands come up to her shoulders, but she keeps her eyes closed, catching his lower lip between her teeth and tugging. Dean follows her direction, dipping his head slightly and licking his way into her mouth, and her hands come up reflexively to hold onto his upper arms.

Too soon, Dean pulls back, and Castiel tries in vain to follow. She opens her eyes to see him watching her, eyes dark. His hands slowly glide over her shoulders, one passing over bare skin and the other bringing the strap of her chemise with it, and Castiel only hesitates for a moment before lowering her arms and letting the garment slip down her torso. She doesn’t bother waiting, just pushes the material off where it’s caught on her hips, lets it pool on the floor around her.

When she looks back up at Dean again, she immediately has to avert her gaze because the way he is looking at her almost scares her.

But this makes no sense—why would she be so anxious when he’s already seen her unclothed before? It is the same thing, physically, but there’s something about the change in intent, the look in his eyes, that charges the air between them and makes her skin tingle. Castiel tries her best not to squirm under his scrutiny, but his gaze is searing, incendiary, and she thinks she might just catch fire.

He lifts his hand then, lightly touches her chin, and Castiel does as he wishes, tilts her head up so that he can see her face.

“You are beautiful, Cas,” Dean says, eyes locked with Castiel’s, and she wants to shrink away from the honesty, the openness she sees there. It’s almost too much, almost more than she can take after a lifetime of suppressing her thoughts and feelings, but she succeeds in holding his gaze.

“As are you,” she replies, enjoying the subtle flush in his cheeks at her unexpected response.

Dean steps back then, taking Castiel’s hands and pulling her forward with him. She steps over the folds of her discarded clothing, looking up at him and hoping that he can recognize the trust she’s placing in him for what it is. He smiles reassuringly and turns them until Castiel is facing the bed, but they are still too far from it to actually use it, and Castiel is unsure what he intends to do.

Then he takes a small step forward, nodding in approval when Castiel responds by taking a step back. They maintain this strange dance, one backward step of hers for each forward step of his, until Castiel’s back meets the wall beside the door. She hisses at the coolness of the stone against her skin, and Dean presses forward, ducking his head to murmur an apology into her ear. She shivers a little when he takes the lobe of her ear into his mouth, nipping at the flesh playfully before shifting lower, focusing his attention on her neck.

Castiel turns her head to the side to allow him more access, hands lifting almost of their own accord to cup the back of his head, carding through baby-soft hair near the nape of his neck.

His hands come up to her hips, lightly resting there, and Castiel finds herself almost content to stay here, leaning against the wall with his mouth pressed to her skin. He starts kissing his way lower though, hands sliding up the contours of her body until they reach her breasts. She keeps herself still, though she does shiver when his fingers pinch lightly at her nipples, sending jolts of heat to her nether regions.

Then Dean bends over slightly, lowering his head, and Castiel has no clue what his intentions are until his mouth fastens around one of her nipples and begins to suck.

“D-Dean!” Castiel gasps, startled by the pleasure igniting low in her belly. He continues to roll the other bud between his fingers, and Castiel tries to fist her hands in his hair, but it isn’t long enough, and her fingers keep slipping. “Ah—ah— _Dean_ —”

It’s incomprehensible. Castiel has touched her own breasts before, has felt Meg’s hands upon them as well, but those touches had not affected her, had not changed her the way that Dean’s does. The sensation had been unexpectedly good in the bath so long ago, but Dean hasn’t touched her since, and she is still utterly unprepared for the feeling of his tongue laving across the tightened bud.

Castiel grasps Dean’s shoulders as he switches sides, and dear god, Castiel had never thought that suckling could feel good. How can a mother properly nurse her children if this is how it feels?

The insistent throbbing between her legs is new, as is the wetness trickling down her inner thigh, and Dean’s free hand is suddenly there, sliding up toward the apex of her thighs. His eyes flick up, seeking hers, and she nods, knowing how important it is to him that this goes both ways. Receiving confirmation, Dean’s hand presses slightly at the inside of her thigh, and she spreads her legs, blushing a little.

He pulls away from her breasts then, straightening, and Castiel suppresses her disappointment at the loss of his attention. She reaches for the ties on his trousers, only to have her hands batted away.

“Not yet,” Dean says, and that… confuses Castiel. She may have no practical experience in this area, but she is not ignorant; she’s read and heard enough to know that copulation requires that both their lower halves be uncovered and joined together. Then Dean drops to his knees, a motion that only increases her confusion.

“Dean—” Castiel starts, surprised and not quite comfortable with their positions, but Dean’s looking up at her, warm hands smoothing over her thighs, and she feels soothed despite herself.

Dean leans forward, shifting a bit to the side and pressing his lips to her right hip, and she shudders when his mouth opens, tongue tracing patterns into suddenly overheated skin. Though she appreciates the pleasure his touch brings her, Castiel cannot help but feel that their positions should be reversed, that she is the one who should be on her knees—that is her place.

Yet when Dean switches sides to kiss and lick at her other hipbone, Castiel doesn’t protest. One hand slides all the way up her leg then, and fingers brush against her sex, making her jerk with surprise. Dean pulls back, tilting his head up to meet her eyes, and she observes that his brow is slightly furrowed. She has only just identified his expression as one of concentration when his fingers pass over a particularly sensitive spot, and she draws a sharp breath. Dean’s lips quirk up at the corners, and his clever fingers find that nub again, exerting light pressure.

Castiel’s breath hitches in her chest, and she shivers despite the sudden heat that courses through her body. Dean shifts lower, dragging his mouth closer to the curls between Castiel’s legs, and it seems he intends to—to use his _mouth_ on her.

Sure enough, his fingers pull away, only to be replaced by lips and tongue, and Castiel cries out, surprised by the pleasure that he coaxes from her body with soft warmth and gentle suction.

“Dean,” she gasps, hands reaching for him and finding the back of his head, “Oh— _Dean_.”

It’s as though the entire world has narrowed down to the movements of his tongue against her, the tender caress of his hands on her thighs, and all she can do is press her hips forward, a silent plea for him to keep going, to keep building up this pressure until she thinks she can’t take it anymore.

She breathes, quick and sharp and desperate, body stretched taut with unfamiliar pleasure that rises in waves, swelling upward with each move that Dean makes—every brush of his fingers on her skin, every flick of his tongue on her over-sensitized flesh.

It’s too fast, too much, yet she wants more, _needs_ more, hips shifting restlessly as Dean takes her higher and higher.

And then the waves crest, pleasure flooding her body and radiating from her very pores, and she starts to slide down the wall, legs suddenly too weak to hold her up. Dean’s arms go around her waist to hold her upright, and she relaxes into him, trying to catch her breath.

* * *

Cas is beautiful as she comes apart, quiet cries falling from her parted lips, and Dean almost can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe that he’s been allowed this.

He pulls back, licking his lips to chase her taste, and stands, scooping her up into his arms. She loops an arm around his neck, loose-limbed and relaxed in a way that he hasn’t seen her before, and when he sets her down on the bed, she lies back, still trembling a little.

“Dean,” she murmurs, reaching for him.

“Just wait,” he says, removing his tunic and unfastening the ties on his trousers. He strips down and gets onto the bed, crawling over to bracket Cas with his body. Her thighs part, allowing Dean to fall between them, and her hands come up to cradle his face.

“Dean,” she breathes, and lifts her head to kiss him.

It’s slow, soft, and Dean tries his best to be patient, but her legs come together a little, the smooth skin of her inner thighs pressing against his hips, and Christ, Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been so hard before. His hips jerk with barely restrained want, and Cas rests her head back on the pillow, eyes closed.

Dean reaches down between her legs to press two fingers inside her, to ensure that she’s wet enough for him. Her legs twitch a little at the penetration, and her eyes flick open, filled with a sense of contentment and—to Dean’s astonishment—adoration.

“I’m ready,” she says, hands sliding around to the back of his neck before tracing the curves of his shoulders, following the lines of his shoulder blades. “Please, Dean. You’ve shown me pleasure—I’d like you to find yours, too.”

Dean removes his fingers and grasps his cock, holding it toward the base with a tighter grip than normal because he doesn’t think he’ll last long. He keeps his eyes on Cas’s and is surprised when she holds his gaze, steady and willing. Wanting, even.

So he lines himself up, the head of his cock just barely nudging into her sweet cunt, and then he’s bracing his arms on either side of her head and pressing in with his hips, as slow as he can but still faster than he’d like, given that this is her first time. Her eyes widen a little as he sinks in, like she’s surprised by the size of him, and her body tenses up, fingers curling into fists against his back.

Dean forces himself to hold still, a gargantuan effort as he’s only halfway inside. “Are you—are you all right?” he manages.

“Yes, fine.”

“Cas—”

“Dean, please,” Cas says, cutting him off, and he means to ask for clarification, but the next word steals the very breath from his lungs—“ _more_.”

He can’t hold back then, his body acting on reflex, and his hips snap forward, slamming the rest of the way in. A choked moan escapes Cas’s lips, and Dean leans down to kiss at her lips, nose, cheeks.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs into her jaw, and she draws her legs up to wrap them around his waist. The motion brings him deeper inside her, and he groans, hips rolling involuntarily.

Dean begins with small thrusts, trying to start off slowly, but Cas makes a frustrated sound in the back of her throat and undulates her hips, wreaking havoc on his rhythm. She also pulls him in with her legs around his waist, and he takes her motions for the permission they are to go harder, faster, and— _oh_ , that’s perfect. He glides into her and she just opens for him, tight and slick, silken heat that surrounds, completes, _consumes_ him.

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses as he feels the bite of her fingernails on his shoulders, “fuck, _Cas_ —”

She doesn’t respond, can’t respond around the pleased sounds that are punched from her throat each time he slides home, and he loves it, _revels_ in it, in the way she’s unable to put two words together, eyes wide as she learns just how much her body can feel. He feels lucky, privileged to be the one to teach it to her, and he does his best not to disappoint, driving his hips forward harder to a chorus of louder moans, Cas arching her back in an attempt to close the space between their bodies.

“C’mon, Cas,” he pants. “Come. Come apart for me.”

She only cries out again, head thrown back with pleasure, and Dean shifts his weight onto his left arm, bringing his right hand down to play with her clit. Cas squeezes her eyes shut at the added stimulation, an absolutely filthy moan leaving her mouth, hips grinding up into the motion of his fingers, and it only takes a few swipes across the sensitive bud before she’s seizing up, mouth falling open soundlessly.

Her cunt goes impossibly tight around him, like it’s loath to part with him, and he only manages to last a few more thrusts before plowing into her one last time and coming with a low grunt. His hips continue to jerk minutely, shallow-fucking her as he spends himself deep inside her.

His consciousness drifts away for a few long moments, and when he comes back to himself, he’s collapsed on top of Cas, face buried in the crook of her neck, and her fingers are gently scratching through the sweat-damp hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Hmm—sorry,” he mumbles, starting to lift himself off her because he knows his weight is not insubstantial, but Cas’s arms and legs—quick to tighten around his torso and waist, respectively—work together to pull him down, and he’s too drained to really fight her, too muddled with the satisfaction of _finally_ having his wife and finding that the experience met—or rather, _exceeded_ —all of his expectations.

“Relax,” Cas says, voice slightly rougher than usual.

“I’m crushing you,” Dean says, but it’s impossible not to relax when Cas’s hands are trailing up and down the length of his spine, soothing him.

“No,” Cas says softly, hands never stopping in their ministrations. “I like you right where you are.”

“Mm,” Dean hums, relaxing despite himself.

But it is still chilly, even if winter is coming to an end, and eventually it’s just too cold to remain as they are. Dean pushes up, and Cas shivers, mumbling in protest as her hands slide to his triceps.

“Lift yourself up a little—I need to pull the covers from under you,” Dean says, getting off the bed. He feels goose bumps rising up his arms and down his back as the cold air of the room circulates, wind entering through the small upper windows of the chamber.

Cas complies, and Dean drags the covers out from beneath her. He throws them over her before crawling in himself. He nudges Cas onto her side, facing away from him, and scoots in close to her back, an arm thrown around her middle.

 _Perfect_ , he thinks, and it _is_. It may have taken some time for them to get here, but god, this feels like everything he’s ever wanted, and despite how happy he is, a dull sense of terror rises in his chest. He fears what will become of him if anything ever happens to her, if he ever loses her. He tenses up slightly, pulling Cas even closer so that they’re as close together as they physically can be.

“Are you all right?” Cas asks, voice soft, and Dean…

Dean sighs and tries to figure out what to tell her, how to explain himself to her, because he knows that she doesn’t like it when he lies. Being able to lie convincingly has been a skill, an asset that Dean has taken advantage of all through his life, but he feels that he can’t lie to Cas.

More importantly, he doesn’t _want_ to lie to her.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean thinks he probably should find this more disturbing than anything else—after all, deception is the name of the game when it comes to life in the royal court, and Dean was taught ever since he was very small that a monarch should place absolute trust in no one.

But with Castiel, trust just comes naturally. It feels right in a way that scares the hell out of Dean, yet he can’t help but gravitate closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. And in this moment, Dean is certain that he would burn for her without a moment’s hesitation. He can already hear Father’s voice in his head, telling him that no one person should hold so much power over the leader of a nation, but… well, Father was also brought to his knees, to his _grave_ , by the loss of a single person.

He’s always been sure that between his siblings and himself, Sam was the most like Father. Now, though, it seems he is more like Father than he’d ever imagined.

* * *

Dean is silent for a long while after Castiel’s query, and she is just beginning to think that he won’t respond at all when he speaks up.

“I’m afraid,” he murmurs into the back of Castiel’s neck, and she starts to turn in his arms, but he tightens his hold on her, keeping her still.

“What are you afraid of?” she asks, reaching up to touch one of Dean’s hands.

Again, Dean doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he lifts his hand to take hers and brings their linked hands up in front of Castiel’s face, fingers interwoven. He lifts his torso slightly and presses a kiss to the side of Castiel’s neck, and this time she doesn’t try to turn toward him.

“I look at us, and I see…” he sighs. “I see my parents.”

 _Oh_. Castiel thinks she knows where this is going.

“I see happiness, and I’m… I’m afraid that it’ll slip away. I don’t know what I’ll do if I ever lose you, and that scares me.”

“Don’t worry, please. We’ll be fine,” Castiel says.

“You don’t know that,” Dean counters. “I never would have guessed that my mother—that anything would happen to her. But it did, and I saw what it did to my father, and I just… I don’t think I could lose you, Cas.”

“And you won’t,” Castiel says, pulling Dean’s hand closer to her face and kissing the back of it.

“I hope for both of our sakes that you’re right.”

Castiel is unsure how to respond to that, so she remains silent, closing her eyes and leaning back into Dean’s chest. It’s strange now to think that she’d been worried about this, afraid of becoming intimate with him, because it feels so natural. So… so _right_. It feels as though she’s been waiting her entire life for Dean to come and fill the gap that her father and brothers left behind.

It’s different with Dean, of course, but it’s enough—more than enough. _Better_ than enough. Far better.

Slowly, Dean’s breathing evens out, as soothing to her as it always is, and his limbs relax around her.

“I love you,” she whispers, trying the words out while Dean can’t hear them, and they feel awfully strange on her tongue.

She honestly cannot remember the last time she said them. Her father loved her and her brothers, but he was not generous with his affections and preferred to show rather than tell, and Castiel and her brothers may have inherited that trait from him.

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel says, and feels it with all her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit difficult for me because it'd been so long since I wrote het porn and I felt like I didn't even know where to start. Hope it was passable xD


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in Xiamen now, at my paternal grandparents' place, and while tumblr still kinda worked back in my mom's hometown, it is completely not working here, and I feel so deprived argh:(

“I don’t understand,” Cas says. “Why is this dinner more special than usual? Do we have guests?”

“Richard claims that he’s finally figured out what your secret is to that soup you make so well,” Dean says, pulling open the door to the dining hall and stepping aside to let Cas go first.

Cas smiles, and Dean loves that he can read the skepticism on her face, the doubt that Richard could have pulled it off. After all, this isn’t the first time Richard’s tried to get it right, and in the past, he’s always been off by a bit, something just _different_ about the flavor when Cas makes it.

Sam and Adam are already there, accompanied by Ruby and Kate, and that’s surprising because Sam hasn’t actually shown up to have dinner with the rest of them in at least a week.

“Did Richard tell you it was a special occasion?” Dean asks as he and Cas take their seats.

“He might have,” Sam replies. “I hear we’re finally getting a chance to taste the real thing.”

“That remains to be seen,” Cas says primly, and Dean laughs.

A few minutes later, Ben and Jesse enter the room bearing two trays, each with two bowls of soup and a platter of bread—apparently, Richard has decided to start with the test. The food is served up, and Dean takes the first spoonful of soup to start the meal, as is the custom.

The flavor really is perfect this time, and Dean says, “Cas, I think he’s done it.”

“Wow,” Sam says after his first taste. “It was pretty good the last few times, but this is divine.”

Cas looks very surprised after taking a bite of her soup-dipped piece of bread.

“Verdict?” Adam asks. “Because if this really is it, you’re a culinary genius, Cas.”

“It is a family recipe, so my ancestors are really the ones to thank,” Cas says. To Ben and Jesse, she says, “You can tell Richard that he’s made it perfectly. I’ll have to congratulate him myself after the meal.”

“Would you like me to go with you?” Dean offers as Ben and Jesse leave to get the next course.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Cas says, and that makes sense because she’s down there more often than Dean is, having apparently found a friend in Richard.

There’s silence for a while, everyone too busy enjoying the food to speak.

Dean supposes it’s a good thing that Cas doesn’t need him to accompany her—he has to meet with Sam and Bobby about redistributing money to the provinces to fund irrigation projects because of a drought that’s hitting the western part of the kingdom particularly hard.

And after that, Dean’s planning to see his knights because they’re all finally back together in the capital—Victor and Garth have been gone for about a month and a half, each leading his own search party to find Lilith, but so far there’s been no luck. Still, Dean needs to hear their full reports before he switches them out for Gordon and Caleb, and it’ll be nice to have all five of them in the same room again.

* * *

True to her word, Castiel goes down to the kitchens as soon as dinner is over. When she enters, Richard is sitting up on a counter, taking a bite out of an apple.

“Hello, Richard,” Castiel says.

“Hi there,” Richard says, hopping off the counter and coming toward her. “How’d you like the soup?”

“It was very good,” Castiel answers. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like a private word with you.”

“Sure!” Richard takes another large bite of the apple and says, between noisy chews, “Lead the way, m’lady.”

Castiel exits the kitchen and moves through the halls, unsure where she should go. Before reaching her chambers, she remembers the hills behind the castle, where Richard had taught her about collecting mushrooms. It’s highly unlikely that they’ll be interrupted there, so it’s ideal for her purposes.

Minutes later, they hike up the hill, side by side. Castiel still hasn’t spoken. Neither has Richard, but he seems content to follow her example, munching quietly on his apple.

Finally, Castiel stops walking, and Richard goes on for two steps before realizing she’s not beside him. He stays facing forward, though, and Castiel needs to know.

“How did you know how to complete the soup?” she asks.

“Why ask when you already know the answer?”

Castiel doesn’t respond, and slowly, Richard turns around, a rueful smile on his face. His eyes are sad, though, and Castiel exhales as slow and controlled as she can, hands shaking a little. “All this time—you’ve been _here_ , for all this time,” she says, voice trembling.

Richard— _not_ Richard—nods. “It’s… it’s been so good to have you so near again, Elle.”

And Castiel can’t stop her eyes from welling up, because now that she knows, it seems so _obvious_. How could she not have noticed? How could she not have recognized his voice, his eyes? But he looked so different, spoke with such different intonations then. The last time she saw him, she was but twelve years old and he a lad of sixteen—young and fiery and powerful, not this unassuming, bearded cook with soft eyes, an easygoing attitude, and a friendly smile.

He holds his arms out and steps toward her, but she backs away, and he stops, pained. “Elle—”

“Do you know how much I worried about you?” Castiel demands. “I—everyone said that you were _dead_ , Gab—”

“Shh,” Gabriel says, hurrying forward and pressing a finger to her lips. “Please, don’t say that name.”

Castiel jerks her head away and draws a hitching breath. “Why? Why couldn’t you stay?”

“I had to go,” he says, looking back and forth as though he’s making sure no one is nearby.

But Castiel knows that they weren’t followed, so it’s much more likely that he’s avoiding her eyes. “There’s never anyone here,” she says irritably. “You told me that yourself.”

“I can’t be caught, Elle. I can’t be thrown out of this place, not when it’s…” he sighs. “It’s my home now, as much as it is yours.”

“If you told the truth, if I spoke to Dean, he would—”

“No, Elle, you can’t,” Gabriel says quickly. “Sam would have to know then, and the political implications of sheltering me here aren’t…” he shakes his head. “Sam would persuade Dean to turn me over to Zachariah.”

Anger briefly flashes through his eyes when he mentions their uncle, and Castiel suddenly sees him six years younger, and it really _is_ her brother, unmistakable.

“Dean listens to me,” Castiel says. “I could make him see reason. I’ve—I’ve told him enough about our history. He knows what we think Zachariah did to Father, what he might have done to Michael and Lucifer.”

“Yet he’s done nothing,” Gabriel points out. “He won’t go to war over us. He won’t help us, not solely based on your word and a seven-year-old supposed crime. It isn’t any fault of his—we have no proof. And besides, Sam will always be there, whispering in his other ear about maintaining peaceful relations.”

Castiel shakes her head. “I don’t _want_ Dean to start a war. I just want to be able to recognize you as my brother. I want Dean to recognize you as his brother. I can’t—I can’t just sit in my chambers and pretend that you are not slaving away in the kitchens.”

“But I _like_ cooking, Elle. It isn’t exactly a hardship.”

“I don’t care if you don’t mind, Gabriel. It’s a matter of principle. You and I are of the same standing, so—”

“Not the same, Elle. Not anymore. You’re a queen now, remember?”

“Well, the gap between us is not so great as everyone believes it to be.”

“That doesn’t matter to me. As long as you…” Gabriel sighs. “You know now, and that is all that really matters to me.”

Castiel frowns then, because she’s been in Laurentia for about three months, and Gabriel has chosen to remain hidden until this point. “Why have you revealed yourself to me now?” she asks. “You could have done so months ago.” Gabriel chews his bottom lip, clearly hesitant, and Castiel says urgently, “Is something wrong? What’s happened? Have you been discovered by another—”

“No, no. It is not my own life that I am worried for.”

“Then…” Castiel’s eyes widen. “Do you—do you have news of Michael and Lucifer?”

Gabriel’s eyes drop to the ground. “I… yes. We’ve kept in contact over the years.”

Castiel can’t help but feel bitter that her brothers all had each other to some extent. She can understand the difficulty of passing messages to Tarcaelius, especially when they were trying to escape notice, but despite her logical conclusion, it still feels as though they chose to neglect her. Does Raphael know that they were all alive and well? Has he known for all this time?

“But how?” Castiel asks, shoving her feelings aside for the moment.

“They are living in a border town, as fur traders,” Gabriel says. “They capture animals and supply the castle with rarer sorts of meat.”

“You’ve—you’ve mentioned them before then, haven’t you?” Castiel says, thinking back to her conversations with “Richard.” He’d spoken of a meat supplier, a pair of brothers—“Matt and Mark,” she recalls, and Gabriel nods.

“They sent word with the last shipment that they may have been discovered by Zachariah’s men. They’re worried for their lives.”

“I’ll tell Dean, then,” Castiel says, starting toward the castle.

But Gabriel hooks his hand around her upper arm and holds her back. “No, you can’t. Dean wouldn’t—don’t you remember what we just discussed? Dean has to consider the peace between our nations.”

Castiel shakes her head, trying to keep moving. “If my brothers are in mortal danger, Dean will—”

“Elle, _listen to me_ ,” Gabriel says firmly, using his free hand to turn Castiel’s head back toward him and force her to meet his gaze. “Dean may care deeply about you, but that doesn’t mean he can do whatever you want him to do. He has the wellbeing of a kingdom to consider, and remember—we still have no proof. I have no proof that our brothers are in danger, only their word. I—”

“We have to be able to do _something_ ,” Castiel says. “When did you receive this message?”

“Last night,” Gabriel responds.

Castiel tries to estimate how long it would take for a meat shipment to reach them from the border and says, “Then they may have sent it as long as three or four days ago. They could be in danger even now.”

“Stay calm, Elle. Zachariah is ruthless, yes, but he is also very cautious. He wouldn’t send people to dispatch our brothers immediately, not without absolute confirmation of their identities. We still have some time,” Gabriel says.

“But what can we do?” Castiel asks, mind racing. If Dean is not an option, then how much _can_ Castiel accomplish?

“Convince them to come here,” Gabriel says.

Castiel frowns. “But you said that we couldn’t offer them sanctuary here.”

“Not without proof,” Gabriel clarifies. “They know that they’re in danger, so they’ll be prepared for attack. With any luck, they’ll be able to capture an assassin live. If you can bring them back, along with an assassin, and force him to admit that he’s working for Zachariah, then I’m sure even Sam would support going to war. I know that he disapproves of Zachariah—he only wants peace because there is not enough evidence to justify going to war.”

“Will they come, though?”

Gabriel sighs. “I’ve tried to convince them before, but they wouldn’t listen to me. Maybe if _you_ went…”

Castiel nods. “I’ll go, then,” she decides. “I’ll convince Dean to let me leave the castle, and I’ll find them.”

“So you think you’ll be able to convince Dean to let you go?”

“Yes. He trusts me. And he knows that if I can’t look after myself, Inias will defend me,” Castiel reasons. It will take some persuasion on her part, especially after what Dean said the other night about losing her, but she’s certain he wouldn’t keep her against her will if she really wanted to go.

* * *

Dean has just dispatched Ash to escort a Devian messenger back out of the castle—a group of eight Devian ambassadors are passing through Laurentia and hope to meet with Dean tomorrow evening—when there’s a knock on the door to his study.

“Come in,” Dean says, and he’s expecting it to be one of his knights because it’s about time they arrived for their meeting about the hunt for Lilith, but he’s surprised when his wife steps into the room instead. “Cas,” he says, reflexively getting to his feet as she closes the door behind her. “What are you doing here right now?”

“Dean, I… I wanted to wait at least a full week, especially given the… the fears that you shared with me so recently—”

Dean barely stops himself from cringing at this because he hates showing weakness, but he supposes that if anyone should be allowed to see his weaknesses, it is his wife.

“—but I have been cooped up in this castle for weeks upon weeks, and now that I am well, I really would like to go on a hunting trip, in the countryside,” Cas finishes.

“You weren’t kidding, that day,” Dean remembers.

Cas shakes her head. “No, I was not.”

Dean moves around his desk to stand in front of her, taking the time to think it over. Then he says, “Well, you don’t need permission from me. You are free to go wherever you like in the kingdom—it is yours, too. I could even accompany you, if you’d like.”

“No, I couldn’t take you from your duties like that,” Cas says.

Before Dean can protest that he would not mind if it meant ensuring Cas’s safety, there’s another knock on the door, and without waiting for Dean’s response, it swings open to admit Gordon, Caleb, and Garth. Gordon and Caleb freeze outside the door at the sight of Cas, but Garth smiles and slides past them.

“Hello, Castiel!”

Cas turns and smiles. “Hello, Garth.”

“Cas and I need to finish discussing something, so if you could wait outside for a few more minutes, that’d be great,” Dean says.

“Oh, of course,” Garth says, backing out of the room. Gordon looks angry, but the door swings shut before he can say anything.

Dean turns to Cas then and takes her hands. “I can come with you. Sam and Bobby—”

“I’d like to be able to move around the kingdom independently, though,” Cas says.

“You don’t have to do everything yourself, Cas. You don’t have to be independent—you’ve got me.”

“Yes, I know, but… but I’d _like_ to be independent,” Cas says, quietly, as though she’s worried about what Dean will say in response, and that just isn’t right. It’s not like Dean intends to put a leash on her.

“Okay, then,” Dean says. “In that case, I want you to promise that you’ll bring Inias and two additional royal guards with you.”

“Two?”

“Yes. Too many would draw attention, and I assume you don’t want everyone to know your identity.”

“Why, how considerate of you,” Cas says, smiling.

She steps forward and leans up to kiss Dean’s cheek, but Dean turns his head at the last moment to meet her lips with his, and he’ll never get tired of the little surprised breath he hears Cas take. Dean deepens the kiss, one arm looping around Cas’s waist to pull her up against him, the other coming up so that Dean can twist his fingers into Cas’s soft, thick hair. Cas hums into his mouth, arms lifting to wrap around his neck.

Dean indulges himself for a few long kisses, drunk on Cas, but eventually she starts to pull back, hands sliding back over his shoulders to press lightly against his chest.

“Your knights are waiting for you, Dean,” she says breathily, eyes still closed, and Dean presses his forehead against hers, arms still around her because he isn’t ready to let go just yet.

“They can wait.”

“Dean,” Cas says, a tiny hint of a reprimand in her voice.

“Okay,” Dean relents, pressing a kiss to her nose and then her forehead before letting his arms fall away from her. “When did you want to leave?”

“I originally planned to leave tonight, but…” Cas licks her lips before drawing the lower one into her mouth and teething at it, and Dean grins.

“Tomorrow morning, then?” he says.

Cas flushes prettily, eyes flicking up to meet Dean’s, and then she smiles and says, coyly, “Don’t keep me waiting, my liege.”

Without giving Dean time to react, Cas goes to the door, opens it, and exits. Dean hears her greeting the knights as she passes, and then his men file into the room. Victor has since joined them, bringing up the rear and shutting the door when he’s inside. Dean wipes the stupid smile off his face as quickly as he can, but Garth has a knowing quirk to his lips, and Gordon looks grumpy.

“All right, give me the news,” Dean says, looking between Victor and Garth. He already knows that they haven’t found Lilith, but hopefully there’ll be clues—something, _anything_ they can work with.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t really relax until she reaches the antechamber of her quarters. It’s empty, and Castiel passes through to the bedchamber, where Anna and Meg are packing her bag.

“Are you certain you want to do this, Elle?” Anna asks as soon as the door is closed. “I still think—”

“Anna, you didn’t know the former princes,” Meg interrupts. “You don’t know how much they mean to Elle. If their lives are in danger—”

“But you… going out there like this…” Anna shakes her head. “Doesn’t that put you in danger?”

“Nonsense,” Castiel says. “I’ll have Inias with me. And Dean says I can bring two guards.”

Meg looks up sharply. “You didn’t tell him about your brothers, did you?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel says. “He thinks I’m taking you and Inias on a hunting trip.”

Meg nods and finishes tying up Castiel’s bag—it holds a few changes of clothing and a small sum of money, because Castiel doesn’t intend to stay away for long. With any luck, she’ll reach the border in less than two days, spend perhaps a day convincing her brothers to come back with her, and return two days after that.

“Why can’t you just tell him the truth?” Anna asks.

“I doubt he’d approve of my going alone to speak to two political fugitives, and I’d rather not make a big fuss out of all this in case they refuse to come with me,” Castiel reasons. And then she frowns because she really, really hopes that they won’t refuse. Where will they go, otherwise?

“But you’re lying to him,” Anna says quietly.

Meg huffs, annoyed. “Of _course_ she’s lying, Anna. No matter what she says to Dean about how her brothers wouldn’t hurt her, I doubt he’d feel safe if she went to find them without an entourage of guards to defend her. After all, she hasn’t seen them for the better part of a decade. And Michael and Lucifer have been in hiding for so long—do you think they’ll trust her if she comes for them with a bunch of royal guards in tow?”

Anna worries her lower lip between her teeth, and Castiel goes over to her, pulling the ties of the bedroll out of her tightly clenched hands and passing them over to Meg. Then she takes Anna’s hands in hers and says, “Don’t worry, all right? Everything will be fine.”

“I just—marriages are built on trust, Elle. You’ll be betraying the king’s trust in you if you do this.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand once Elle has explained the situation to him,” Meg says as she does up the ties of Castiel’s bedroll. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Castiel says, releasing Anna’s hands. Meg frowns, but before she can ask anything, Castiel explains, “It wouldn’t do to leave immediately. I’m sure Dean would suspect something.”

“Tomorrow already seems too soon,” Anna says.

“I need to be quick. We may have some time before Zachariah acts, but it can’t be much,” Castiel says.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and from outside Inias asks, “The feed has been packed. Shall I saddle the horses?”

Castiel nods to Meg, who crosses the room and to open the door. “No, Inias,” Castiel answers. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.” When she turns around, she sees Gabriel entering the room right behind Inias, and Meg hurries to shut the door behind them. “I—what—why are you here?”

“I thought I should see you off,” Gabriel says. “It’s all right—I know these are your most trusted servants. My identity is safe with them. I would appreciate it if you did not share this information with Samandriel, however.”

“Of course,” Castiel says. Samandriel is too close to Balthazar, and it would be dangerous for any news of Gabriel’s whereabouts to reach Zachariah’s ears. Then she shakes her head. “Regardless, you should not be here. Dean could return at any time.”

“I just… I had to see you before you left.”

Castiel frowns, and when she tries to catch Gabriel’s eye, he keeps his gaze on the ground. So Castiel steps closer and ducks her head a little, but as soon as their eyes meet, Gabriel looks away. “What’s wrong?” she asks. “I’ll be back in less than a week.”

“I’m just worried about you,” Gabriel eventually says, and he seems sincere.

“Oh, don’t—”

“No,” Gabriel says quickly, cutting her off. “No, don’t tell me not to worry. The last time I watched Michael and Lucifer walk out the door, I never saw them again. I just—”

“They didn’t have plans to come back,” Castiel reminds her brother. “I do. Please don’t worry about me.”

Gabriel’s lips stretch into a small, rueful smile. “That’s… not possible.” Then he sighs and says, “But you’re right—I should leave now. Good luck, Elle. And it was good to see you again, Meg and Inias. Thank you for taking such good care of her.”

“Nonsense—she’s been taking care of us,” Meg says with a smile, and Castiel just shakes her head.

Then Gabriel exits the room, and Castiel gestures for Inias to stay inside. He closes the door and turns back toward her, expectant.

“Weapons,” Castiel says. “Obviously, I’ll need my bow and arrows.”

“Those won’t help much in a fight,” Meg says.

“No, but if I’m to go on a hunting trip, it’d be strange for me to leave them behind,” Castiel points out, and Meg nods to concede her point. “Inias, are you familiar with the armory?”

“Not exactly, but I can check for your preferred style of sword now, if you’d like.”

“I trust your judgment,” Castiel says. Inias bows and leaves the room. “Is there anything else?” she asks, looking between Anna and Meg.

“Food?” Anna says.

“Gab—Richard packed some for us already,” Meg says. “I had Inias load it into the saddlebags.”

“Thank you, Meg,” Castiel says.

“I think we are ready, save the two guards you’ll be bringing,” Meg says. “Are you choosing them, or—”

“I’ll leave the selection up to Dean,” Castiel answers. “These guards are for his peace of mind, after all.” After a pause, she says, “If we’re ready, then you two can take your rest. I will see you tomorrow morning.”

Meg and Anna each bid Castiel good night and leave for the servants’ quarters.

Alone, Castiel sits down on the bed to wait for her husband. She feels nervous about this venture. After all, she doesn’t know how her brothers will react to her visit. She doesn’t even know if they’ll recognize her anymore—she’s grown a lot since they last saw her.

Castiel had originally planned to bring all four of her servants, but she wants to minimize the number of people she is bringing along. Large groups of travelers draw attention, and she wants to avoid exactly that. But she cannot dismiss the two guards that Dean wants her to bring, so she’ll have to leave two servants behind. It isn’t really a choice—of course she’ll be bringing Inias and Meg with her.

There may be a problem with leaving Anna behind, however. Castiel is not blind to her maid’s high regard for Dean, and she knows that Dean once saved Anna’s life. And even though he may not remember, Anna certainly has not forgotten. She is about as likely to lie for Castiel as she is to tell the truth to Dean, and now that Castiel has committed to this course of action, she cannot afford to have the lie exposed until she has already returned with her brothers.

Would Dean come after her?

It’s possible. He chose to ride out with his knights the last time she went off on her own, but the circumstances were different. He couldn’t have known where she’d gone then—this time, he knows she’ll be out on a hunting trip. Castiel is reasonably certain that Anna would not go out of her way to tell Dean the truth, so as long as Dean suspects nothing, it should be fine.

Perhaps Castiel should think up some preventative measures in case Dean _does_ come looking for her before she’s ready. She should be prepared for any eventuality.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and Castiel says, “Come in.”

Ash enters the room, smiling. “So, you’re going off on a hunting trip,” he says.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms.

“Well, Sam says that you absolutely have to stay for dinner tomorrow, at least, so that you can get a proper send-off,” Ash says.

“Oh,” Castiel says, mildly surprised. She hadn’t expected Sam to know—or to care, even if he did know. “How did Sam find out?” Castiel asks.

“Dean sent me to tell him, and he told me to come here,” Ash replies. “Also, Dean said you’ll be taking two extra guards, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I be one of them?”

Castiel blinks. “I—but you’re Dean’s personal manservant.”

“Dean’s personal manservant who is long overdue for a holiday,” Ash corrects. “Please, Castiel, take me with you. Dean wouldn’t refuse if you asked.”

“Why do you want to leave? Don’t you like serving Dean?”

“Yes, of course. It’s great. But my life doesn’t _revolve_ around Dean.” Castiel just squints at Ash, and he emends, “Okay, so I suppose it technically _does_ revolve around Dean. But I wouldn’t mind a little time away from him sometimes. I wouldn’t be a burden to you. And besides, I would—well, that is—Inias would miss me.”

“What?” The word is out of Castiel’s mouth before she’s even had time to think about it.

“What?” Ash parrots, quickly turning scarlet.

Castiel raises her eyebrows. “…Inias?”

There’s a long pause, and then Ash says hesitantly, “No…?”

Castiel shakes her head. “We’re going to talk about this, Ash,” she says. “How long have you and Inias—”

“We’re not—we’re not—anything, right now, strictly speaking,” Ash says haltingly. “But we… we have a lot in common.”

Where has Castiel been for the last few months? How could she not have noticed? But honestly, she can hardly be blamed—thinking back, she can remember no change in Inias’s demeanor. Is he that good at masking his emotions, or has Castiel just not been paying attention?

“Castiel?” Ash says tentatively. When Castiel doesn’t respond immediately, Ash mutters under his breath, “Oh damn it, he’s going to kill me.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Castiel says, and Ash laughs a little.

“So can I uh, can I come?”

Castiel contemplates it for a moment longer before nodding. “I’ll speak with Dean, then. Are you certain he’s willing to part with you?”

“Sure,” Ash says. “He’s sent me out on two-week-long assignments before. This will be nothing.”

“All right. It’ll be nice to bring another friend along,” Castiel says, smiling. “You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you,” Ash says before bowing out of the room.

Castiel spends a few minutes wondering at how unexpected this development is—she never would have expected Ash and Inias to grow emotionally attached to one another. In all the time that Castiel has known Inias, she has never seen him harbor romantic feelings toward any individual of either sex, and maybe that’s why she hadn’t been able to sense his attraction to Ash.

And then her mind supplies her with the memory of an uncomfortable conversation with thinly veiled—no, outright accusations, remembers Ash kneeling on the ground several feet from where Castiel is currently sitting, Inias coming to join him soon after.

Was that where it began? Or had it already started long before, when Inias asked Ash to keep an eye on Samandriel for the good of both their masters? That must have been the first thing they knew they had in common—devotion to their masters.

But the beginning is inconsequential. What matters now is that they are happy, that they _stay_ happy. Inias is an orphan, had no family before Castiel’s father happened across him and decided to give him a job, sensing that he had potential. Castiel would like to think that she and Meg and Anna and Samandriel are Inias’s family now, and she wonders what it means if he hasn’t seen fit to tell her about his association with Ash. Do the others know already? Is Castiel the only one who’s been left in the dark?

The door opens again then, and Dean enters.

“Finished so soon?” Castiel asks, smiling.

“Lilith’s managed to hide from us for months. One more night won’t change anything,” Dean replies, shutting the door behind him and stripping out of his shirts. “And as much as I value my knights, you’re much better company than they are.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, but I may be slightly biased.”

“Only slightly, hmm?” Dean says, undoing the ties to his breeches as he approaches the bed.

“Very,” Castiel murmurs as Dean reaches her and tips her head up with a light touch to her chin. Their lips meet, and the contact feels incendiary, addicting, dizzying. Castiel clasps her hands at the back of Dean’s neck, pulling him down to deepen the kiss, and her thoughts slow down, sluggish and thick and unimportant.

Dean draws back, eyes twinkling, and Castiel wonders at how lucky she is to have him. Her mind clears slightly, and she notes that he looks ridiculously smug.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Castiel asks, faux-irritated.

Dean shrugs. “It’s nothing,” he says, following his words up with another breath-stealing kiss. “I’m just giving you some incentive to come home.”

Castiel smiles at this and tugs lightly on the short hairs at the back of Dean’s neck. “You foolish man, I already have all the incentive I need.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't really have time to edit this carefully because I'm about to go out, so I just skimmed it. Please excuse any typos, meep!

True to Ash’s word, Ruby appears as Inias is saddling the horses the following morning with word from Sam, insisting that Castiel stay for dinner. Refusing would make their departure seem rushed and therefore suspicious, so Castiel acquiesces to his request and dines with Dean, Sam, and Adam.

By the time everyone has finished eating, it’s late afternoon, and by Inias’s estimation, Castiel will not reach the border until tomorrow evening.

They ride for several hours, only slowing now and then to rest the horses, and when they stop for the night at a small inn, Castiel catches Ash looking at her questioningly. From his perspective, she imagines this would indeed be strange—if this were a leisurely trip, as Ash believes it to be, there’d be no need to hurry.

“Ash, Harry, please see to the horses,” Castiel says as she heads for the door, flanked by Inias and Meg. She needs some time to regroup with them and decide how to proceed.

They pay for two rooms and go up quickly to make the most of their time. During their ride, Castiel had time to think up several options, and she runs through them now.

She could tell Ash and Harry the truth and hope that they support her decision. Of course, she’d have to spin her motivations to put Dean’s concerns first because Ash’s first priority will be Dean’s well-being. The fact that she lied to Dean in order to leave the castle already puts her on rocky footing with this approach, so it’s unlikely that she’ll choose it.

She could lie to them and say that there’s a place she’d been to as a child, near the border between Tarcaelius and Laurentia, and she wants to see that place again. But it’d be pesky to have too many people with her when she finds her brothers. Michael and Lucifer would most likely recognize Inias and Meg, but Ash and Harry are foreign to them, and Castiel wants to have as little room for error as possible in their first meeting.

There’s a chance that Castiel could slip away in the middle of the night and complete her journey alone, but this would get all four of her companions into trouble, and she couldn’t do that to them. Besides, it would be very difficult for Castiel to leave the room without waking someone—

“You’ll have to go on without us,” is the first thing Meg says, voice hushed, when Inias closes the door behind them. Castiel doesn’t even have time to speak before she continues, “Gabriel gave me sleeping powder. Use it to knock us all out, and then tie us up so that we can’t go back to Dean.”

“That sounds like a horrible idea,” Inias says, shaking his head. He looks at Castiel earnestly and says, “You can’t go on alone. I’ll go with you.”

“Elle wouldn’t want us to get in trouble,” Meg says.

“But this is exactly what’s going to get you in trouble,” Castiel interjects.

Meg shakes her head. “If we leave with you, then we’re complicit in your plans. If you’ve left us here as well, that means you were acting completely on your own, thus taking us out of the realm of accomplices and making us seem incompetent instead, which is—to be honest—much safer, in this case.”

“I don’t care what happens to me,” Inias says. “If you’re to be caught scheming, then I will be as well.”

But Castiel thinks she sees Meg’s reason. “As queen, it’d be simple for me to be pardoned of deceiving the king—”

“Not _easy_ ,” Inias tries to argue, but Castiel just talks over him—

“As servants, it’d be nearly impossible to escape that sentence. The law must be upheld. Deceiving the king is treason—you’d be put to death if you came with me.”

Inias looks pained. “I _have_ to stay with you, Elle.”

Castiel feels a pang in her chest—Inias hardly ever uses her nickname, and to pull it out now… he’s definitely playing on her emotions in an attempt to sway her, so she must stay firm. “No,” she says. “No, Meg is right. I’d rather you stay here and live than come with me and die.”

“But—”

“Inias, we don’t have much time. Don’t argue with me,” Castiel says sternly. “Meg, you have leave to use the sleeping powder.”

“I have spare rope in the saddlebags,” Inias says, only a hint of reluctance in his admission, and Castiel reaches out to cup his cheek.

“I’ll be fine, Inias. I promise.”

“You’ve seen Elle wield a sword before,” Meg says reassuringly. “She has excellent form, on and off horseback, and besides, no one will know who she is.”

“Perhaps her status would protect her a little,” Inias says quietly.

Castiel shakes her head. “It could make me more of a target,” she says, dismissing the idea of wearing any sort of visible royal emblem.

“It’s dangerous for a young woman to travel the roads alone at night.”

“We’re done here,” Castiel says, unyielding, and Inias drops his gaze to the floor, backing up a step. “As for my sex, I can easily disguise myself as a man.”

Inias nods his begrudging approval and says, “There are two sets of spare clothing in my bag.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says.

There’s a knock on the door then, and Castiel catches Meg’s eye before granting Ash and Harry permission to enter the room.

* * *

Dean rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. He hasn’t had this much trouble falling asleep in a long time, and he thinks—no, he _knows_ —that it’s because Cas isn’t here. He’s gotten so used to falling asleep with her beside him that he doesn’t feel comfortable without her here. It’s a strange thought.

It’s annoying too, because Dean had a very long day today, yet no matter how much he wants to rest, his mind won’t stop turning, and he just feels restless.

After sending Cas off, Dean had returned to preparations for receiving the Devian ambassadors. The men had been late—apparently one of the carriages had lost a wheel, and it had taken some time to replace it. But at least they’d arrived in time for supper.

The banquet was excruciatingly boring, but Dean thinks he was a pretty gracious host, so the Devians shouldn’t have any bad news to bring back to their king when they leave tomorrow morning.

Dean would—and does—trust Ash with his own life, and he knows the depth of Inias’s devotion to his master, so Castiel is in good hands. There is nothing Dean has to worry about in his life, personally or politically, so why can’t he fall asleep?

Well, he may be curious about how suddenly Cas left. She’d only briefly mentioned hunting once before requesting to leave, and now, barely over a day after bringing it up, she’s gone. That’s strange, isn’t it? Or maybe Cas has just been sitting on this idea for a long time and wasn’t sure how to bring it up with Dean. After all, Dean himself has experienced the restlessness that comes from being cooped up in the castle for extended lengths of time.

Maybe he should ask Anna about Cas’s trip, just in case. No—he’s worrying for no reason. He shouldn’t do that. It’s a stupid idea.

Is it?

Well, no real harm could come out of it. If Dean’s right and nothing is amiss, he’ll just look like he’s pining, which is maybe a little pathetic. Dean debates with himself for another minute before sitting up and deciding that he doesn’t care what it looks like—he’d like some confirmation that Cas is doing exactly what she says she is.

He gets up and puts some breeches on before opening the door to the antechamber.

“Sire?” Samandriel is instantly on his feet.

“Wake Anna and send her in here,” Dean says.

Samandriel frowns but crosses the antechamber to the servants’ quarters, and Dean backs into his bedchamber again, going to sit down at his desk. He chooses to face the door, straddling the back of the chair and folding his arms over the top of it.

Anna’s voice comes from the doorway about two minutes later. “Dean?”

“Yeah. Come in and close the door,” he says.

Anna obeys hesitantly. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes.” Dean shakes his head. “It’s not—I just had to ask you a few questions.”

“Oh,” Anna breathes, relaxing visibly.

But this gives Dean pause, because he knows what she must have been thinking, and he thinks he knows why. “Anna,” he says quietly, “I would never do that to you or Cas.”

“What?” Anna says, tensing up again. “No, I didn’t—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Dean says patiently. “I do remember you, you know.” Anna’s eyes go wide, wider than they were before, and Dean continues, “I remember leading my men against the bandits that ransacked your village, and I remember what happened after.”

Anna’s head is bowed now, enough that Dean can barely see the red of her cheeks, and she says, “I thought—I hadn’t expected you to recognize me.”

“It’s been a few years,” Dean concedes.

He’s wondered how she came to be in Tarcaelius, working in Castiel’s estate, but he’s never really had occasion to ask. Now, he’s a little too concerned with Cas’s situation to be sidetracked, but perhaps they’ll discuss Anna’s history another time.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Anna?” Dean asks.

“No, of course not,” Anna says, looking down, but before she can hide her face, her expression gives away some hesitation, internal conflict, and that’s something Dean needs to investigate.

“You’re keeping something from me,” Dean guesses, and Anna is a little too quick to shake her head. “Look at me,” Dean says sharply, and her head snaps up. “Is it on Cas’s orders? Has she told you to lie to me on her behalf?”

“No. She wouldn’t lie to you,” Anna says steadily, but she isn’t as skilled at being unreadable as Inias is—clearly, she wasn’t trained to be—and Dean sees the lie immediately.

“Anna, if you want to repay me for saving your life, you’ll tell me the truth now. Cas isn’t just on a hunting trip, is she?” Dean asks. Anna’s silence is confirmation enough, and Dean abruptly goes cold all over. “Where is she?”

“I really think it’d be best if she explained it all herself. She’ll be back in under a week,” Anna says.

“I can’t wait a week, Anna. I don’t think I can wait a _day_. Tell me where she is,” Dean demands, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“I don’t actually know,” Anna says.

“Then tell me where she’s going. You have to know _something_.”

Anna shakes her head, clearly conflicted. “No, I can’t—”

“You _can_ ,” Dean interrupts. “It’s just a matter of whether or not you will.”

* * *

After everyone has fallen asleep—the sleeping powder that Gabriel provided was extremely fast-acting, taking effect within seconds of administration—Castiel removes a pair of scissors and a large square of cloth from Meg’s bag. She spreads the cloth on the ground in front of the vanity and places a stool on top of it. She hasn’t ever had to cut her hair on her own before, but its appearance does not matter much to her, not now that time is of the essence. So she crops her hair short with quick, decisive cuts.

She finishes quickly and strips down, sparing an extra minute to brush any hair from her body before donning one of Inias’s outfits. She is not accustomed to the relatively coarse fabric of the trousers, but she appreciates the freedom of motion in this clothing—really, she should always wear trousers.

Then she removes the stool in front of the vanity and ties up the corners of the cloth to clear away any evidence of her shorn hair; if Dean really does come to find her, she’d like to leave as few clues for him as possible to buy herself more time.

Before leaving the room, she checks her appearance in the mirror and is satisfied that she looks boyish enough to pass for an effeminate adolescent male. Pulling her hood up hides her shoddy haircut adequately, and with a sword buckled to her belt, there’s little to no doubt about her sex. She disposes of the bag of hair behind the stable before going in to saddle her horse.

A few minutes later, Castiel rides out of the stable, heading southeast for the border.

* * *

In the end, Anna tells him everything—or at least, Dean’s reasonably certain that she’s told him everything. Cas has gone to find her long-lost brothers, who may or may not be in imminent danger of assassination by Zachariah’s men. And it doesn’t matter what excuses Anna makes for her master—the bottom line is that Cas didn’t trust Dean enough to tell him the truth, choosing instead to strike off on her own.

It stings far more than Dean is willing to admit.

He leaves a message for Anna to bring to Sam in the morning, when he’s already too far gone to be chased back, and sends Samandriel to fetch Garth—he would bring more men, but he hopes to keep this trip as secret as possible, and Garth is most likely to sympathize with Cas, of Dean’s favored four.

He saddles up rapidly and meets Garth at the castle gates, taking the road toward the capital’s southern gate. Once out of the city, they turn toward the east.

Dean tries to count the hours since his wife’s departure. She left shortly after dinner, and now it must be at least one hour past midnight, so she has about a twelve-hour head start. With any luck, she’ll be staying at an inn for the night, giving Dean time to catch up.

“Dean,” Garth says, drawing up to ride beside him, “can you tell me where we’re going?”

Garth has always been the most curious of Dean’s knights—he’s certain that the other three would have remained silent. But curiosity isn’t a bad thing, and Dean considers how much he should tell him.

“Is this about Castiel?” Garth presses.

“Yes,” Dean answers.

“Is she in danger?”

“Potentially,” Dean replies. “Keep an eye out for any inns on our way. Ash will have left the customary mark above the stable door if they’ve stopped at an inn.”

Garth nods, curiosity satisfied for the moment. Dean thinks he could trust Garth with the whole truth—or at least, as much of the truth as Dean knows. He wouldn’t put it past Cas to keep the full extent of her motivations from Anna, as a precaution against Dean. Fuck, earlier today, Dean wouldn’t have even _dreamed_ that Cas could lie to him, could plan out a course of action specifically designed to deceive him. How quickly these things change…

Why is Cas doing this? Why doesn’t she _trust_ him?

* * *

Just as the sun is starting to peek out from beyond the mountains in the distance, Dean sees Ash’s mark drawn above a stable door. He draws his horse to an abrupt stop and dismounts, leaving the care of his horse to Garth as he runs into the inn.

The innkeeper is nowhere to be seen, so Dean goes behind the counter and finds the register. The most recent transaction was made yesterday evening: two rooms on the second floor. That sounds like what Cas would probably choose. Dean replaces the register and goes upstairs to the allotted rooms. After a moment of hesitation, he knocks on one of the doors. No point in surprising her.

“Cas?” he calls out. No response. “Cas, you can open up. It’s Dean.”

“Dean?” a voice says from inside, and Dean recognizes it as Meg’s.

“Meg, where’s Cas? Open the door.”

“I can’t.”

As Meg answers, Garth runs up the stairs and down the hall. “Dean,” he says hurriedly, “there are only four horses in the stable.”

Dean feels his stomach drop alarmingly at the new information. “Which one is missing?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Castiel’s.”

“Fuck.”

Dean kicks in the door, only to find the four servants on the floor, each bound to a different leg of the small table in the room. Shit, _Ash_. Dean instantly rounds the table and drops to his knees in front of his manservant—his _friend_ —and unties him. Ash slumps to the side, and Dean catches him by the shoulders, shaking him to wake him up.

“Ash. Ash, _hey_. Are you—”

“With all due respect, I don’t think he’ll wake anytime soon,” Meg interrupts.

“Then why are you awake?” Dean asks, turning on her.

“I have a fast metabolism. Always have,” Meg replies.

But as she finishes speaking, Ash groans, one hand lifting to knead at his forehead.

“Ash, are you all right?” Dean asks. “Can you hear me?”

“I’m fine,” Ash grumbles, licking his lips. “Did someone hit me in the head with a brick? Fuck, it _hurts_.”

“If you’d like to find Elle, you might want to stop wasting your time talking to Ash and listen to me,” Meg snaps.

Part of Dean—the part of him that’s still a monarch who’s treated with at least _some_ respect—wants to strike Meg for her insolence, but he _does_ want to find Cas, and that’s what’s more important right now. So he says, “Where is she?”

“She rode for the border between Laurentia and Tarcaelius,” Meg says as Inias starts to wake up, and Dean circles around the table to shake him and see if it’ll wake him faster.

“I knew that much already,” Dean says. “It’s a big border. Which end of it is she headed toward?”

“North,” Inias murmurs as Meg says, “South.”

Dean frowns, eyes flitting between the two servants.

“I don’t know if you can trust their information,” Garth says. “Their loyalty to Castiel is absolute. She could very well have left them here just to slow us down. It’d be better to keep going.”

“No, I—if we take too long to arrive there—”

“She’s riding toward the southern part of the border, I promise you,” Meg says fervently. “She wanted us to point you in the wrong direction if you caught up, but—”

“You mean she knew that I would come?” Dean asks incredulously.

Meg smiles grimly. “She really is a lot smarter than anyone gives her credit for.”

“Is Meg telling the truth?” Dean asks, turning his eyes on Inias.

“Of course I—”

“I’m not speaking to you,” Dean says sharply, silencing Meg.

“I—” Inias stops, fixes his eyes on the ground.

“I don’t have _time_ for this,” Dean says irritably. “Is she or is she not going southeast? If you’re worried about her being punished upon capture, she won’t. I’m only concerned for her safety.” Inias still says nothing, and Dean lets out a frustrated sigh. “Look, you confided in me that you believed I meant her no harm. Nothing’s changed,” he insists. “I only want to help her. She’s _alone_ , Inias. She’s not safe.”

Inias swallows hard and meets Dean’s eyes. “Southeast,” he finally says.

“Can you be more specific?” Dean asks.

“She’ll be looking for a pair of fur traders, brothers, under the names of Matt and Mark. They’ll most likely sell a lot of meat as well. She’ll start asking around when she nears the border. I’m certain of it,” Inias says quickly. Then he adds, “Bring me with you—please.”

“Fine. Garth, help me untie them,” Dean says. He removes the ropes from around Inias’s arms and works on Ash next, letting them untie their ankles on their own. Garth frees Meg and the fourth servant—Harry.

Straightening, Dean leaves the room briskly.

“I’m coming with you,” Ash says, following him. Dean just nods.

“Me, too,” Meg says.

“No. Only four of us will go. Our horses are too tired from the ride here, so Garth and I will be taking two of yours. Ash and Inias will accompany us,” Dean says as he hurries down the steps. “You stay here with Harry until the horses are recovered, and then return to the castle.”

“But—”

“That’s an order,” Dean says sternly.

Meg falls silent. Dean, Garth, Ash, and Inias make their way into the stables and get the four horses saddled and ready for riding.

“Are you certain you don’t need any rest, Dean?” Garth asks.

Dean shakes his head. “I need to find her.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am officially back in California! Hooray for internet!:)

Castiel is exhausted by the time she pulls on the reins to stop her second horse—the first had simply been too tired to go on right around dawn, so she’d traded it for another with a humble farmer who’d been thrilled at the prospect of owning such a lovely stallion.

She slides off its back, looking up at the high walls of the compound. Two large M’s are set into the stone arch framing the main gates, and two guards stand outside, one on either side of the doors. They watch her suspiciously as she approaches.

“I—” she starts, but her voice is raspy, scraping across the surface of her dry throat, and she coughs a little before trying to gather moisture in her mouth to swallow. “I’m here to see Matt, or Mark.”

One of the sentries starts laughing. The other looks concerned.

“Go away, lad. The masters aren’t in,” the second sentry—the one with kinder eyes—says.

Castiel clears her throat. It’s not a surprise that they mistook her for a male, with her hood up and her voice as hoarse as it is, but perhaps that will work in her favor. “I’m here to find a job.”

“We don’t need anyone,” the second sentry says.

The first moves toward her, amused, and lifts his sword, though he doesn’t draw it from its sheath. “Get going. I won’t hesitate to use this on you if you stay here.”

But Castiel’s come too far to be turned back by two pigheaded men, so she waits for the first sentry to come close, arm lifting as though he intends to strike her. Under his cloak, she can see his gate key, its ring hanging from a hook on his belt, so she slips forward, drawing on energy that she didn’t know she still had, and lifts the key from his body.

“Hey!” he exclaims, sounding furious. “You give those back!”

Castiel wants to open the gates, but she knows she won’t have enough time to slip the key into the hole, turn it, and push the gates open without being struck by one guard or the other. So she darts away from the compound, stopping several paces away.

The guards draw their swords and brandish them at her.

“Don’t do this. Please, just let me see them,” Castiel says.

“They don’t see just anyone. Now give me back that key,” the second sentry says, advancing on her.

Castiel backs up a few more steps to ensure that she’s out of range of his sword and says, “I don’t want to hurt you, but this is important, and I will do what I have to.”

The second guard stares at her for a moment before laughing. “You? A scrawny little thief?” he says as Castiel tucks the key in the pocket of her trousers and draws her own sword. “I don’t think you even know what to do with that pigsticker.”

“Kid, give back the key and get lost,” the first guard says, eyes hard. “I’d rather not kill anyone today.”

“I will give back the key if you let me inside,” Castiel says.

“We wouldn’t be much good as guards if we did that, now would we?” the first guard says.

“Then you leave me no choice,” Castiel says.

The guards exchange glances before charging at her.

She parries their first blows easily and spins past each of their second blows, going to her right so that she can focus on one sentry before the other. She shoves the point of her sword straight outward at the man’s middle, forcing him to jerk away, colliding with the sentry on the left. She advances toward the door, but they recover too quickly for her to use the key.

Castiel ducks and makes a wide horizontal swing with the sword to keep them a safe distance away from her, but a few moves later, she’s certain that she won’t be able to enter without incapacitating one or both sentries. So she charges at guard who had seemed kinder, batting his sword out of the way when he points it at her and grabbing his free hand when it comes up to strike her. This brings them face to face, only his sword is out of commission while hers is pressed right up against his throat.

“Yield,” she says.

The other guard hesitates for a moment before coming at her anyway, and Castiel groans, ducking under the first guard’s sword arm and twisting it behind his back. The awkward angle of his wrist makes him drop his sword, and she presses a foot to his lower back and shoves him straight at the other guard, who has to dodge to the side to avoid running his comrade through with his sword.

Castiel snatches the guard’s dropped sword and thrusts it into the trees on the other side of the path before turning her attention to the sentries again. The second guard is still coming at her, so she runs to the side, toward the door. The man is much larger than her, so his momentum keeps him going in the wrong direction for a second or two, and Castiel uses that time to shove the key into the lock and turn it. The first sentry sticks two fingers into his mouth and makes a whistling sound, and it must be some sort of an alarm, but Castiel can’t care about that—she needs to get inside.

The gates swing inward, and Castiel rushes through. She turns and immediately tries to shut them, but the second sentry is too close, kicks them open before she can close them.

Castiel backs up several steps, head whipping around to take in her surroundings—she’s in a courtyard of some sort. But before she can even devise a course of action, men are streaming in from four paths on either side of Castiel, and she turns around to run straight for the building that’s directly across from the main gates, but a group of guards bursts out of the building as well, and Castiel has to stop, breathing hard.

She lifts her hands up in surrender, throwing her sword to the ground as an afterthought. The guards in the front all have their swords out, pointed at her, and it seems she underestimated her brothers’ precautions; it makes sense that they would think her a threat.

“I only want to see your masters,” she says. “Please.”

A man grabs her shoulder from behind, and she shoves at him, but not before he gets a hold of her hood, yanking it off her head. The guards seem surprised by her appearance, but she doesn’t understand why. She’s rather certain that she looks like an average boy.

“Put down your arms!”

The order comes from within the building in front of Castiel, and the guards around her hesitate for a moment before sheathing their swords, though they continue to glare at her suspiciously. Then a man steps from within the building, the guards in front of him parting to make a path for him to pass through. Castiel doesn’t think she recognizes him until he’s level with the nearest guards.

_Michael_. The thick beard and long hair obscure most of his features, make him look grizzled and much older than his twenty-nine years, but his gaze is still the same, eyes the same shade as Castiel’s boring right into her. Castiel longs to call out to him, but she doesn’t know how much the sentries know, doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to be Matt or Mark, so she remains silent.

“Guards, return to your stations,” he finally says.

“But—” one of the sentries begins.

“ _Go_. And fetch the boy’s horse. See that it is fed and watered in the stables,” Michael adds. Fixing his eyes on Castiel, he says, “You, come with me.”

She nods and follows her brother into what appears to be the main building of the complex. The guards retreat, disappearing down the hallways from which they’d come. The ones that came out of the main building disappear as soon as they’re inside, going into a number of different doors and leaving her and Michael alone. But he says nothing and continues to walk, leading her through a back door to a smaller courtyard.

Castiel looks around at the buildings, and she recognizes the structures as Devian. Frowning, she considers the reasons behind this choice of architecture. It makes sense, she decides. It’s difficult to hide a Tarcaelian accent in Laurentia, but it’s certainly easy enough to pass it off as a Devian accent. And King Zachariah’s men would not think to search a Devian dwelling for their fugitives, not wanting to offend the only neutral country in this land and force it into action.

Michael brings her into a smaller room, and Castiel deduces that it is a set of living quarters for one person, or perhaps a pair. The room they’ve just entered has two seats on either side of a tall, thin tea table, and there is an archway to her right, blocked by a set of golden curtains—the bedchamber must be behind those curtains.

“What are you _doing_ here?” Michael hisses, pulling Castiel’s attention back to him.

“I had to see you,” Castiel says, relieved at the confirmation that he does indeed recognize her. “Where is Lucifer? Is he well?”

“We’re both _fine_ ,” Michael says. “You should not be here. Aren’t you—you’re the _queen_.”

“Michael—”

“How did you know where we were? Did you—” Michael cuts himself off there with a long sigh. “It was Gabriel, wasn’t it? He told you.”

“Yes. He said that you and Lucifer suspected that you’d been discovered by Zachariah’s men.”

“All the more reason for you _not_ to come,” Michael says. “The guards are all prepared for attack—it’s no wonder they treated you like a threat. It’s too dangerous for you anywhere near the border. How could you—” he shakes his head. “What the hell was Gabriel thinking, sending you here?”

“I wanted to convince you and Lucifer to come back to the capital with me. If you’ve been in contact with Gabriel, you must know my… my position in the Winchester clan. I can convince Dean to take you in, defend you from Zachariah’s men. If you just come with me—”

“We don’t need his help,” Michael says. “We’ve taken care of ourselves for the past seven years, and we’ll be fine this time, too.”

“Michael, please—”

“You need to go back,” Michael interrupts. “I’ll have a few of my men escort you—”

“No,” Castiel says. “I understand that you’re concerned about my safety, but why is it that you’re allowed to worry about me while I’m not allowed to worry about you?”

“Elle, there is no reason for you to worry. You’ve already seen our preparations, haven’t you? That was not even the full extent of the precautions we took.”

“Nevertheless, my heart is not at rest,” Castiel says. “By your reasoning, the precautions I took to avoid recognition should be sufficient to put your concerns to rest. Looking in the mirror, even _I_ hardly recognize myself.”

“But I still knew you as soon as I saw you,” Michael argues.

“It doesn’t matter what you say. I won’t leave here unless it’s with you and Lucifer.” After a pause, she asks, “Where is he?”

“He’s on a hunt,” Michael replies. “He should return by sundown.”

“Then I will wait here for him.”

“It’d be best for you to leave as soon as possible.”

Castiel steps over to the nearest chair and takes a seat. “I’ve already made my decision clear.”

Michael sighs. “Very well. I’ll bring Lucifer to you as soon as he returns, but I’m certain that he’ll agree with me. Gabriel has already sent word, asking us to go to the capital. We rejected him then, and we won’t go with you now.” When Castiel doesn’t respond, Michael says, “If you’d like, I’ll see if I can find some better-fitting clothing for you. I assume you’d like to maintain your disguise.”

“Yes, thank you,” Castiel says.

Michael nods. “I’ll send a servant, then. Just wait here.” With that, he turns and heads for the door.

“Hey—Michael, wait,” Castiel says, bolting to her feet. Michael pauses and turns to face her, and she takes a few steps toward him. “I just… I’d like to look at you.”

She watches as his eyes soften and the crease between his eyebrows fades, and suddenly it feels like all the distance between them has been erased. Castiel draws her lower lip into her mouth and bites down, trying her best to keep the tears at bay, but now that she’s already said what she came to say, gotten the most urgent matter out of the way, she can focus on the fact that she’s finally found her dearest brother, that he’s finally standing right in front of her, and honestly, after so many years of yearning, how can she possibly _not_ cry?

“Oh, god,” Michael murmurs, crossing the room in a few quick strides and pulling her into his arms. “Oh, Elle, I’m so sorry.”

Michael’s words only seem to worsen the ache in her chest, and Castiel clings to his shoulders, hardly able to believe that this is real, that it’s actually _happening_. Despite her best efforts, her entire frame shakes with sobs, and Michael only holds on tighter, lets her cry.

“I missed you—so much,” Castiel says into the material of Michael’s shirt. “They made me go to—to your funeral, but I—I was so sure you were alive.”

“Sorry, Elle, I’m so sorry,” Michael’s murmuring, soft and fervent.

“How could you just leave me behind like that?” she says, even though she knows the reason. They were two young men in their early twenties, and it would have been strange to have an eleven-year-old girl in their charge. And they were on the run—she would only have slowed them down.

“Please forgive me—forgive us.”

Castiel does her best to take deep breaths, get her breathing back under control. Michael holds her through it all, only releasing her when she starts to back away, and when she backs up enough to see his face, she notices that his eyes are shining with unshed tears.

“I cannot imagine how it must have been, all these years,” Michael says quietly. “For you and for Raphael. I am so, so very sorry.”

“No, I—I shouldn’t have behaved in that way,” Castiel says, wiping at her eyes. “I apologize.”

“Don’t,” Michael says. “It was my responsibility to take care of you, yet I abandoned you. I never should have done that.”

Castiel shakes her head and sniffs, still trying to even out her breathing , but it’s so hard to stop the hitching in her chest that happens every time she draws breath. “You can go now,” she says. “I’m fine.”

“Castiel, you’ve grown so much,” Michael says, taking a moment to really look at her. He lifts a hand to cup her cheek, dipping his head slightly to catch her eyes, and says, “I remember you as such a bratty little girl. Clever, yes, but incorrigible. You’re a beautiful young woman now, ghastly haircut or not.”

Castiel can’t help but laugh at the comment about her hair. Michael laughs with her, and just in this moment, she can imagine that they were never apart, that they were always together, always able to share their laughs like this.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and a voice from outside calls, “Matt?”

Castiel looks to Michael for a hint as to what she should do, but he’s already going to the door, and when he opens it, Lucifer stands in the doorway.

“Why are you back so soon?” Michael asks, but Castiel is too busy taking in her other brother’s appearance to really listen to his response—something about alarms and messages.

Lucifer isn’t as grizzled as Michael is, much easier to recognize because his face hasn’t changed much at all. But upon closer inspection, he seems thinner overall, cheekbones protruding more from his face than they did before. His eyes appear sunken into his face—tired. Castiel wonders how many hardships her brothers had to face together over the years to get to where they are now.

“Look at who’s here,” Michael says, waving Lucifer into the room.

Castiel manages a small smile as Lucifer enters. He freezes almost as soon as he’s crossed the threshold, and Michael pushes the doors closed behind him.

“How—” he starts, but his voice seems to desert him.

“Hello, Lucifer,” Castiel says.

“It was Gabriel,” Michael says. “He sent her here, hoping that we would go back to the capital with her.”

Lucifer clenches his jaw, and Castiel would be surprised at how closed-off he is toward her, but she and her second eldest brother were never that close, even when they lived together in the palace. “We’re not going. No matter what you say,” Lucifer says.

“Why refuse help when it’s offered?” Castiel asks, frustrated. “Zachariah wouldn’t declare war on Laurentia lightly. Besides, Dean could protect you without Zachariah ever finding out.”

“It is not your husband’s capabilities that we doubt,” Lucifer says.

“Then what is it? Do you—do you not trust me?”

“We don’t trust _him_ ,” Lucifer says. Castiel opens her mouth to argue, but Lucifer continues, “How much trust can we put into a man who chose to make peace with Zachariah?”

“But Dean didn’t know the circumstances at the time,” Castiel says.

“Does he know now?” Lucifer asks.

“I’ve talked to him about it, yes.”

“And has he done anything?” Lucifer challenges. “Has he done a single thing against Zachariah? Has he even tried to verify whether or not the bastard was behind our father’s death?”

“It was so many years ago,” Castiel says. “How could he possibly verify—”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” Lucifer says. “I’ll bet he knew of Zachariah’s treachery from the beginning and just chose to ignore it because that was the most convenient course of action for him.”

“I swear, he didn’t know,” Castiel insists.

“How can you know that?”

“He told me.”

“Oh, and he always tells you the truth, does he?” Lucifer says.

“Enough,” Michael says, stopping them. “Elle, it doesn’t matter what the king’s motivations were for making peace with Zachariah. The fact remains that he _did_ accept Zachariah as an ally, and that makes it difficult for us to place our safety in his hands, regardless of the fact that he is now your husband.”

“We care deeply for each other,” Castiel says. “I’m certain that he would not let harm come to you.”

“A king couldn’t possibly put his queen above the wellbeing of his entire country,” Lucifer says. “Besides, how can you be sure that he cares for you so much?”

“I just—I just know,” Castiel says. She can’t exactly explain to Michael and Lucifer what Dean meant when he compared himself and Castiel to his parents because that would require telling them what happened to his parents. And that is his pain to share, not hers. “Please, just believe me.”

“Elle, we won’t—”

“Give us some time to think on it,” Michael interrupts Lucifer. “I will send you a change of clothing, and some food and water. Rest, Elle.”

“Very well,” Castiel says. “Thank you.”

She watches her brothers leave the room before returning to her seat at the back of the room. She runs a hand through her unruly hair and wonders if it really is as unkempt as Michael seems to think it is.

But that is of no consequence—what matters now is convincing her brothers to return to the capital with her. Sure, they seem very well-prepared, but the castle has many more guards, more skilled than the ones that Michael and Lucifer have here. If only they would just trust her.

* * *

It’s already late in the evening when Dean and his men approach the town near which Castiel’s brothers are apparently hiding. The horses are tired, so the four men have all dismounted, leading their rides forward on foot.

When they stop in town to ask for directions, they are pointed farther south; apparently the brothers own a compound a few miles south of the town and tend to keep to themselves. This fits with their status as fugitives, so Dean chooses to leave town and continue south.

But they’ve scarcely left the town gates when four horsemen appear, blocking their path.

“Who’s there?” Garth barks.

Without answering, the men leap from their horses, drawing swords in midair. Dean instantly pulls his sword from its sheath and yanks hard on the reins of his horse, forcing it to back up a few steps so that it’s out of immediate reach. He slides down from his seat and joins his men in battle, but it quickly becomes clear that these four are not skilled enough to defeat them.

Two are slain, but the other two run for their horses and take off to the south.

“After them!” Dean shouts, jumping back into the saddle. Inias, Ash, and Garth are quick to follow.

The two men and their fallen comrades are all dressed in black, difficult to see in the darkness—and darkness _has_ fallen, now. Each has a gold band tied round his upper arm, however, and the two strips of color make them a little easier to follow as they break off the path in an attempt to lose Dean.

“Slow down!” Garth calls out. “We could be riding into an ambush!”

But they follow the two attackers out of the trees and to a large wall, at least fifteen feet high, which the two men scale at startling speed. Dean has already dismounted and started to climb the brick wall, but Garth reaches him before he’s gotten very far, grasping his shoulder to stop him.

“We should try going in through the front,” the knight says.

“I’m the king,” Dean says. “I doubt the owners of this place will mind.”

“The wall is Devian in design,” Inias observes. “See the carvings near the top of the wall? I believe it’d be best not to cross any lines.”

“Well, the attackers just went inside. If the Devians were the ones behind this attack, they’ll have been the ones to cross lines,” Dean says. “I’m going in. Garth, Inias, circle this compound and make sure no one comes out. Ash, you’ll come with me.”

“Dean, wait,” Garth says. “Take Inias.”

“Why?”

“This could very well be the place where Castiel’s brothers are hiding,” Garth points out. “The men who attacked us rode mostly south—the position of this place seems to be right. If it is, and Castiel’s brothers are here, you’ll need someone who’ll recognize them.”

“Fine. Inias, come with me,” Dean says. Garth and Ash spread out in opposite directions.

“They may have gotten away by now,” Inias says as they start to climb.

The handholds in the brick are small, and it’s difficult to get up. Inias seems to have a much easier time of it than Dean does, ascending quickly to the top and reaching a hand down to help Dean when he’s close enough.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean responds, voice lowered. “We need to search the place for Cas either way.”

They lower themselves down on the other side of the wall and drop, and the landing hurts Dean’s feet a little, but he’s fine. He looks around and notes that they appear to be in some kind of a garden. There are signs that the bushes to his right have been disturbed, the attackers’ trail, and Dean heads in that direction, sure that Inias will follow.

He needs to know who these men are and who sent them. Not many people know where Dean is right now, and Dean stopped believe in coincidence long ago. If these men knew where to find Dean, they must have figured it out by realizing, perhaps, that Dean was following Cas.

And if Dean finds out that even one of those men laid a hand on Cas, he’ll kill them. He’ll kill them all.

They come to the end of the long trail through the bushes and reach the entrance to a small courtyard, surrounded on all sides by what appear to be bedroom suites.

“There,” Inias whispers, jabbing a finger at the ground to point out two sets of footprints—Dean hadn’t even noticed that the ground underfoot had been wet as they ran through the bushes.

Dean and Inias start to run across the courtyard, but suddenly a stream of men clothed in tan uniforms comes from up ahead. Dean turns, only to see more men coming from the other entrances to the courtyard—they’re surrounded.

He draws his sword and hears Inias do the same beside him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to put up the next chapter because there was a comment or two about the ending to the previous chapter being rather mean. But actually, the endings to the next couple chapters are all kinda mean. So, a warning: what's coming up is gonna be a little difficult to get through, but please, please, please just trust me, stick with me, and everything's gonna be okay. Sort of. Maybe. ;)

Castiel wakes from her nap just as it’s getting dark outside, which is an inconvenience that comes with riding all night and having to take such a long nap during the day, she supposes. Since she slept dressed, she gets out of bed and passes through the curtain into the parlor, where she takes a seat.

She is still in the process of strategizing how she should convince her brothers to come home with her when she hears a great deal of footsteps outside—have the assassins come for her brothers?

Castiel picks up her sword and emerges from her room, only to see that she recognizes the two men who have been surrounded in the courtyard. Dean is in a half-crouch, sword drawn and at the ready, and Inias is standing behind him, facing the opposite direction—Castiel can easily recognize his stance, even standing behind him.

“Dean!” she calls out, rushing through the ranks of guards to stand in front of her husband.

But as soon as she’s within reach, Dean grasps her hand and pulls her behind his back, maintaining a defensive stance.

“Stand down!”

The order is from Michael, and Castiel spots him farther back, near the courtyard’s eastern entrance. Dean remains tense even after the guards stow their weapons and retreat, and Castiel just stares, unable to believe that he’s really _here_. Inias and Meg had agreed to point Dean toward the northern portion of the border, if he really showed up at the inn. How did he find his way here?

Michael gestures for Dean, Castiel, and Inias to follow him before turning and walking out of the courtyard. Dean goes cautiously, and Castiel wants to speak to him, but now isn’t the time. His hand is still wrapped tightly around hers, showing no sign of letting go anytime soon, and Castiel is certain that she will lose feeling in her fingers if he keeps it up for much longer.

They follow Michael into the large entrance hall of the main building and through a maze of smaller hallways before reaching what appears to be a study.

“Have the intruders been dealt with?” Lucifer asks without looking up from his desk.

Michael doesn’t respond, though. He nods at Inias, who closes the door, and then he promptly drops to his knees.

“Wait, what the—” Dean starts.

Lucifer looks up with an air of annoyance that is quickly replaced by surprise and bewilderment.

“I apologize, Your Highness,” Michael says, head bowed. “The manner in which you and your servant entered the complex was suspicious, so we wrongly assumed that you were an assassin.”

“How do you even—” Dean tries.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lucifer is hissing in the meantime, words clearly directed at Michael.

“On your knees, brother. That is the _king_ ,” Michael snaps.

“No, don’t,” Dean says quickly. After a moment of hesitation, he finally lets go of Castiel’s hand and takes two steps to reach Michael, grabbing his arms and pulling him to his feet. “I’m going to take a leap and guess that you two are Cas’s brothers.”

“I am Michael. He’s Lucifer.”

Castiel had suspected that Anna would tell Dean about her search for her brothers, and this is the confirmation. It still doesn’t explain how Dean knew to come here when Inias and Meg were supposed to point him northward, but Castiel supposes she can ask Inias when they have a moment to themselves.

“And you’re being threatened by King Zachariah,” Dean says.

“We believe it to be so, yes,” Michael replies.

“Well, either you have spies in your midst, or there are people watching your complex who know that Cas is here and that I would follow, because I was just targeted by four assassins not far from your compound. My men and I killed two of them, but two escaped. We chased them here.”

The color drains from Michael’s face. “I will have my men search the grounds thoroughly. Do you have any way to identify them?”

“They were wearing all black, except for a band of gold cloth around their left upper arms,” Dean answers. “But if they are hiding within the ranks of your guards, pretending to work for you, they could have changed clothing by now.”

“Nevertheless, I will have my men search,” Michael says. “Please excuse me for a moment.” He exits the study and hurries down the hall.

Castiel thinks that Dean might acknowledge her now, but he doesn’t even look in her direction, turning instead to face Lucifer. “Castiel has told me what she thinks your uncle did to you, to your father,” Dean says. “You are her brother, so you’re also my brother. I will do what I can to help you, but it is difficult to make a case against someone so long after the fact.”

“It is… gracious of you, to offer,” Lucifer says stiffly.

Then Michael reenters the room and says, “Forgive me, but I’d like to request that you take our sister back to the castle. It’s too dangerous for her to be—”

“Michael, don’t,” Castiel interrupts him, but he just continues speaking.

“—out here, especially now that his men could possibly have slipped into our ranks.”

“I agree,” Dean says, still not looking at Castiel, and she wants so badly to yell at him, to grab him and shake him just to get a reaction out of him, but he’s maddeningly calm and studiously ignoring her. “I would like to hear your story first, however. You were older at the time—you must have had a better understanding of what happened to your father.”

“It was a long time ago,” Michael says. “You have no need to worry about it.”

“I’d still like to hear it,” Dean says. “If you were truly so wronged by King Zachariah, then there is no way that I can call him my ally. But I would appreciate it if I could retire for the night, first. The ride here was long, and we will have time to talk in the morning.”

“If you insist, we will tell you everything we know,” Michael says.

“Good. Now, I have two men outside your complex—a knight and a manservant. If you could invite them in and provide some space for them to rest as well—”

“Yes, of course,” Michael says. “Allow me to make arrangements. You’ll share with Elle, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Dean responds evenly.

Michael nods. “Take your husband to your room, then, Elle. Inias, you may have the quarters next door to your master’s.”

Inias’s eyes widen, as though he hadn’t expected Michael to remember him by name, but he nods in silent acceptance. Castiel nods to her brothers before leaving the room, taking Dean and Inias back through the hallways—she remembered which turns to take, on the way in.

The walk back to Castiel’s temporary quarters is tense and silent and feels all the longer because of the uncomfortable atmosphere. When they finally reach her quarters, Castiel stops in front of the door and watches Inias move on to the next set of doors before entering her own lodging.

Castiel has only just come into the room when she’s grabbed from behind and slammed against the suddenly-closed door. She opens her mouth, a reflexive cry bubbling out of her throat, but Dean’s mouth crashes into hers, swallowing the sound. His hands are all over her, roaming possessively over her shoulders and back, grabbing at her breasts and bottom, fisting in her now-short hair and tugging, and Castiel is helpless under the onslaught, hardly able to keep up with the tongue that’s making itself at home in her mouth.

Dean’s mouth finally slips away from hers, dragging along her jaw and down her neck, licking and biting and sucking all the way, and Castiel gasps, hands finally remembering how to move and coming up to grasp at Dean’s shoulders.

“Dean—what are you—”

Before she can say anymore, Dean’s mouth slants over hers again, silencing her. She can feel him where he’s pressed against her belly, hard and hot and urgent, and she feels herself throb in anticipation even though the last time she had him could not have been more than forty-eight hours ago.

There’s something frantic about Dean’s movements, the way he practically rips the tunic away from her body, shoves the ill-fitting pants right off her hips, and Castiel feels infected by it, hands falling to the ties of Dean’s trousers and swiftly untying them. Dean pins her to the door with his body and slips his hands beneath her thighs, lifting them up to bracket his waist even as she reaches down to push at his trousers.

“Fuck you, Cas, fuck you very much,” Dean breathes right into Castiel’s mouth, and before her mind can adequately process what Dean could possibly be trying to say, he is pressing into her, stretching her perfectly, _achingly_ wide.

“Ah— _ah_ —” Castiel gasps, because she doesn’t feel as wet as she did the first few times, and it almost hurts to have him pushing into her. “Dean—wait, Dean—”

Her husband groans, a dissatisfied sound, and one of his hands drops to work against her sex. Castiel cries out, startled by the blinding sensation that Dean’s fingers create. She’d assumed that sex would be routine, boring, repetitive, but _god_ , repetition of something that feels _this good_ cannot possibly become boring, ever.

“Oh, god, D-Dean— _Dean_ —” she pants, hips rolling almost against her will, and the sound Dean makes this time is definitely one of pleasure.

The pain has faded into the background, into nonexistence, and when Dean begins to push again, Castiel draws him in with her legs, ankles crossed behind his back. As soon as Dean is all the way inside her, he pauses for a moment, as though to catch his breath, before drawing out and slamming back inside, setting up a rapid pace that Castiel cannot possibly hope to meet.

Dean’s muttering under his breath incomprehensibly, and he sounds angry, the hard snapping motion of his hips almost _violent_ , but Castiel can hardly bring herself to care—can hardly even _think_ beyond words like _yes_ and _please_ and _more_ —so she tries to make a mental note, hopes that she’ll remember to comfort Dean when this is over.

A few thrusts later, Dean hits that spot inside Castiel that makes her entire body light up, and she claws at his back, near insensate with pleasure when Dean catches on and makes sure to nail that spot with every inward push. Castiel is distantly aware that she’s saying something, begging, though she doesn’t even know what she’s begging for, just that she needs this to go on forever, needs Dean to be inside of her, _always_.

“Oh, fuck,” Dean grunts, hips slowing down, “Cas, _fuck_ —”

And then he plunges into her one last time and stiffens, mouth open soundlessly. Castiel brings her own hand down to emulate what Dean did to her in the past, and it isn’t quite the same, isn’t quite as good, but she’s already so close to the edge that a few more swipes sends her over, blood rushing to her head as her hips jerk erratically.

“Oh, Dean,” she whispers as he sags slightly, and then he’s sinking to his knees, taking her down with him so that she’s seated in his lap.

“Shh,” Dean says, voice slurred. “Just—don’t talk. Not yet.”

So Castiel holds her tongue and allows herself a moment to bask in the afterglow.

* * *

Dean restrains himself until they’re alone, doesn’t allow himself to even _look_ at Cas until they’re alone, because he knows that as soon as he sees her face, he’s going to practically attack her, whether or not her brothers are present.

He’d been so worried about her meeting an untimely demise, and then he’d thought that _he_ would die, and it’s just been far too much for one night.

So as soon as they’re alone, he presses her up against the door and takes her, hard and fast and everything she _doesn’t_ deserve, because Castiel deserves tenderness and gentleness and care, but Dean can’t bring himself to be gentle with her when she’s been so fucking reckless. He fucks into her, heedless of the amount of noise she’s making, screaming and begging for more, and yanks at her hair, so short and unruly, proof of how little she trusts Dean.

He thought he remembered how it felt to be inside her—honestly, it’s only been what, two days since the last time?—but _this_ … memories don’t come anywhere close to the real thing. And Jesus fucking Christ, Dean usually has better stamina than this, but he’s only been at it for maybe a few minutes and he already feels ready to blow, about to combust.

So he does, sparks flying behind his eyes as he spills inside his woman, letting his forehead hit the door beside her head with a thump. He’s barely aware of her rubbing herself to orgasm, but then she comes, tightening up around him, and his dick twitches even as it softens.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas says breathily.

But god, Dean’s legs can hardly even support himself anymore, let alone both of their weights, and he slides to the ground, landing on his knees, and shushes her. “Just—don’t talk,” he requests, because he needs a moment, needs to calm down. “Not yet,” he adds.

It’s silent for a while, and then Cas shivers, and it occurs to Dean that she’s naked while he’s still mostly dressed, so he lifts her up to carry her to the bed that should be behind those curtains.

“Dean, I can walk,” Cas insists, so he sets her down, lets her gather her clothing and bring it with them into the adjoining space.

Sure enough, there’s a small bedroom beyond the curtains, and Dean strips out of his clothing while Cas sets her own clothing aside and pulls back the covers. She crawls into bed and reaches out for him, so he gets in beside her, but he doesn’t lie down just yet.

“You shouldn’t have left like that,” Dean says. “The assassins that I ran into earlier—what if they’d decided to attack you? You would have been alone against the four of them.”

“That is precisely the reason why I chose to cut my hair and dress up as a man,” Cas says, sitting up and pulling the blankets up around her. “If any assassins were waiting for me, they wouldn’t have expected me to be alone, and they certainly wouldn’t have expected me to look like this.”

“Even so, you were alone,” Dean emphasizes.

“Yes. I am sorry for my recklessness, then,” Cas concedes.

“And for your lies?”

“Yes—those too,” Cas says, head lowered. “My brothers’ lives were in the balance, and I couldn’t leave anything up to chance, so—”

“Chance? _Chance?_ What, were you calculating the odds that I would be on your side?” Dean asks, incredulous and—and _hurt_ , damn it. “Didn’t you— _don’t_ you trust me?”

“I do,” Cas says, sounding pained, but what right does she have to be upset about this when she was the one doing the lying?

“You clearly don’t, or you wouldn’t have lied to me. Not about something as important as this.”

“No—Dean, please, let me explain. I kept it from you for your sake,” she insists. “I knew that you couldn’t make a move against Zachariah without any proof. Or rather, you could, but you would have had to do so without approval of the majority of your court, and against the wishes of your people. I couldn’t put you in that position.”

“I don’t care, Cas,” Dean says. “I don’t care about all the political reasons behind your decision. You _lied_ to me. It’s that simple.”

“Then what would you have done, in my position?”

“I would have told the truth,” Dean says. “You—Cas, you should have talked to me. Even if I couldn’t do anything politically, I need to know when you’re worrying about something. They’re your family, so they’re mine too. How could you not realize that?”

Cas’s face is still downturned, and she sounds frustrated when she says, “Dean, I lied because I didn’t want you to feel like you couldn’t do anything to help. You already carry the burden of running the nation. I can’t—I’m your wife. I’m here to support you, to _lighten_ your burden, not to add to it.”

“I already said that I don’t _care_ about that, Cas,” Dean says. “That political stuff—Sam helps me with it. You know that. How am I supposed to trust you when you can lie about something as important as this?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says. She glances up in Dean’s direction briefly, and he thinks he catches anger in her gaze, but before he can get a better look, she’s lying down and turning her back to him.

“Cas.”

“I see no point in continuing this conversation. You’re obviously unwilling to give ground. I’ve already apologized. What more do you want from me?”

“You’re angry.”

“Good observation,” Cas says shortly.

Dean is quiet for a moment, considering how best to approach his wife. “Cas, I… I understand why you did what you did,” he says. “But you… you have to think about… about how it felt to find out that you lied to me, that you didn’t trust me with your family. I care for you very much, and it was… unpleasant to have that thrown back in my face.”

Cas slowly turns back toward him. “I know that my actions hurt you. I’m sorry.”

The apology seems sincere enough, but Cas won’t even look at him, so he’s certain that she’s still angry with him. Sighing, Dean lies down and twists onto his side, reaching over to tug at Cas’s arm until she’s also lying on her side, facing him.

“Look at me,” Dean says, voice soft. Cas’s eyes remain stubbornly lowered, lashes hiding them from Dean’s view, and he adds, “Cas, please.”

She blinks once before meeting his gaze, blue eyes unwavering, uncompromising. ”I accept that you did not want me to lie to you,” she says. “But I still feel that my concerns were valid. Was I wrong to think that you would have wanted to help? Was I wrong to then realize that you would be unable to do so without alienating a great number of your own subjects? Dean, you—you are _infuriating_ , and I can’t—”

Dean presses a finger over her lips, silencing her, but her eyes are still blazing, and god, Dean thinks he’s never seen anyone or anything more beautiful. “I get it, Cas. I do,” he says. “I know that all of your considerations were for my sake, and I appreciate that—I can’t remember the last time someone stood in my shoes and thought things out so thoroughly. But from now on, I want you to talk to me about these things. Especially if there’s danger involved.”

Cas nods, hands coming up to pull Dean’s hand away from her mouth. “Very well,” she says.

But Dean’s not quite finished, so he says, “You remember what I said to you before, don’t you? I… I need you, Cas, in a way that I’ve never needed anyone before, and it terrifies me. I can’t—I _can’t lose you_. When Anna told me that you would be riding out to your brothers, that they were in danger of attack, and that you were traveling closer to the source of the danger, I thought I’d go mad with panic.”

“Shh, Dean, shh,” Cas murmurs, shifting upward on the bed and pulling Dean toward her.

He moves closer, letting her direct his head until it’s pressed into the hollow beneath her chin, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s trembling until her hands slide down his back, trailing up and down his spinal column soothingly.

“I’m fine,” Cas says, bringing one hand upward to rest on Dean’s neck. “Nothing’s happened to me.”

“Yes, thank god,” Dean says.

“Well, nothing except an apparently ghastly haircut,” Cas emends, and Dean laughs, surprised.

“Who said that?” he asks.

“Michael, of course.”

Dean pulls back to look at her, tugging her down so that she’s at eye level, and smiles. “I won’t deny that I am far more accustomed to you with long hair, but I rather like this look on you. It… it suits you.”

Then it’s Cas’s turn to laugh, and she says, “What, you think messy, unevenly cut hair suits me?”

“It’s as unpredictable as you are,” Dean says, lifting one hand to run through her hair.

“I can’t tell whether that was praise or an insult,” Cas says, but she’s smiling.

Dean cups the back of her head and pulls her in for a kiss, soft and slow. She scoots closer, twining her limbs around his body until there’s no space between them, and Dean thinks he would be satisfied if he could just stay here for the rest of his life.

Exhaustion finally begins to set in, and Dean draws back slightly, pressing his forehead to hers. “We should rest. I doubt you’ve slept much in the past two days.”

“No, not much,” Cas confirms, closing her eyes. “Good night, Dean.”

Dean shuts his eyes too. “G’night, Cas.”

* * *

Castiel is roused by some sort of commotion when it’s still dark. Dean is already sitting up and twisting to get off the bed when Castiel identifies the sound as shouting, coming from outside. She bolts upright and reaches for the bench near the foot of the bed, where she left her clothing.

She’s still pulling on the tunic she received from one of Michael’s servants in the afternoon, and Dean’s only just done up his trousers when the door of the outer room is kicked open. Dean grabs his sword and charges out past the curtains to fight the intruders, and Castiel quickly pulls on her trousers before snatching her sword and rushing out after her husband.

She emerges just as one of two fighters gets past Dean, waving his sword wildly. Castiel sidesteps two forceful jabs before retaliating with a few quick slices of her own blade. She parries the next swing and sprints past her opponent, spinning to put her back against Dean’s.

Castiel trades several blows with her opponent before managing to land a rather deep cut across his sword-wielding arm. He drops his weapon, and Castiel is about to go on and knock him out when Dean circles around her, slamming the pommel of his sword down on the back of the man’s head. Then he grabs Castiel by the elbow, leading her out of the room.

She freezes up just outside of the bedroom at the sight of the inner courtyard, which is occupied by upwards of three dozen men, more than half of whom are dressed in black, with gold bands around their upper arms—Zachariah’s men. The ground is littered with bodies—dead or unconscious Castiel cannot tell. Dean is already pulling at her arm, dragging her along the side of the building, seemingly intent on taking her out of this place.

But then Castiel sees Michael right in the middle of the fray, and despite the fact that he is bearded and grizzled, Castiel can only see the warrior of years past, in all his glory, and it’s clear that he hasn’t lost any of his skill in all this time.

She breaks free of Dean’s grasp without even thinking and leaps into the courtyard, fighting her way toward her brother. She hears Dean cursing behind her, but she’ll apologize to him later, when she knows that her brother is out of harm’s way.

It’s difficult to focus in this sort of fight, Castiel quickly realizes, because there are too many opponents and too many allies, and it is near impossible to anticipate each enemy’s next moves. So she adjusts her own strategy, choosing instead to fight reactively rather than proactively. Despite the care she takes to defend herself, she sees a sword in her peripheral vision, coming toward her unprotected left side, and she tries to shy out of the way, but she’s certain she won’t have enough time to clear the blow.

Just before Castiel feels the bite of metal, another blade slides into the way, countering the hit, and Castiel turns her head, expecting to see Dean. But Inias is there, leaping forward to finish off the man who did the attacking.

Startled, Castiel takes a moment to reorient herself. Dean is a few yards to her right. Michael is still in the center of the courtyard, with two guards near him. Where is Lucifer? She hadn’t seen him earlier, and she hopes he isn’t one of the bodies on the ground.

A man comes at Castiel from the side, and she sidesteps his sword, ducking and sticking her leg out to trip him. He goes sprawling on the ground, and Castiel makes her way over to Dean, who seems to be making better headway toward Michael, having apparently guessed Castiel’s motivations for entering the battle.

Just as she reaches Dean, one of the assassins manages to inflict a gash across his upper left arm, and blood sprays everywhere. Castiel immediately steps in to cross swords with the man who hurt her husband, and usually she calculates her moves so carefully, but an unfamiliar pressure in her chest has her fighting purely on instinct, protective anger amplifying the strength she places into each swing. When her sword slashes across the man’s throat, she doesn’t even flinch.

Castiel turns back and sees that Dean is still fighting, that he doesn’t even seem affected by the wound. She hurries back to his side, staying on his left to defend him.

The ring of enemies surrounding Michael is thick, but Dean and Castiel eventually manage to break through, with Inias and several guards quickly filling the gap and widening it so that the assassins cannot close it again.

“Michael—come on!” Castiel shouts, grabbing at his arm.

“Cas, no!” Dean barks, yanking Castiel’s hand off Michael’s arm just as a blade comes swinging down. It could have taken off Castiel’s hand entirely, and she curses herself for losing vigilance even as she spins around to fight her way back out.

But when she turns, she sees that the guards have widened the gap sufficiently for them to just run out, so Castiel does exactly that, sprinting out of the ring of foes. She’s quickly followed by Dean and Michael, and the ring of assassins breaks apart, coming toward them.

“This way!” Michael says, taking off toward the eastern side of the courtyard.

Dean immediately starts following him, but Castiel remains in place a moment longer, so she spots the knife that’s heading straight for Dean’s back. She slashes her sword through the air, hears the knife hit the ground with a clatter, and sees Dean spin around. Castiel means to tell him to keep going, that she’ll be right behind him, but a sharp pain in her lower back makes the words stick in her throat, and when she looks down, she sees the point of a sword sticking out of her belly.

She hears an indistinct roar of outrage, muffled by the buzzing in her head, the thought that she—that she’s going to _die_ —and then the blade is being withdrawn, and it almost hurts more on the way out than it had when she was initially stabbed.

The clanging sounds of steel meeting steel become almost too much to withstand, echoing in her head and adding to the pain, and Castiel is barely aware of arms lifting her, carrying her away. She can see assassins following, golden bands rising and falling with the motion of the arms that bear them.

Then they’re indoors, an unfamiliar ceiling above her, a surprisingly soft surface beneath her.

“Cas— _Cas_ —” she hears over muffled sounds of continued fighting, and thinks, _Dean_.

His face swims in and out of focus above her, and she blinks several times, willing the fogginess away, but it doesn’t seem to be working. _Dean_ , she tries to say, but she can’t tell whether or not any sound is actually coming out of her mouth, and it’s suddenly so, so cold.

Then everything goes dark and silent. Blissfully, painlessly silent.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to post this chapter on Halloween, but I've moved it up a day bc I got a very nice request to update soon on tumblr, and also bc I've been really anxious about it ever since I put up the last update, and I figured I should just put myself out of my own misery and just get it over with.
> 
> So. Please, please, _please_ trust me, and don't kill me. I'm gonna go hide now.

It feels like an eternity has passed before the physician emerges from the room and says they can go inside. Dean instantly pushes his way in, heedless of Cas’s brothers, and takes the chair beside the bed.

Cas looks pale, unhealthily so, and Dean would know—the reason for it is all over his torso and trousers, his body stained red with her blood. Michael and Lucifer hover somewhere to Dean’s right, looking over at their sister, but Dean doesn’t care, can’t focus on them when Cas is lying here, unconscious. He lifts her hand from where it rests at her side and clasps it between both of his.

Someone touches his arm, and Dean glances over to see that the physician is there, trying to clean the wound on his bicep.

“Leave it,” Dean says.

“You’re still bleeding, Highness,” Michael says.

“I said, _leave it_ ,” Dean snaps, and the physician backs off immediately. Before he can leave the room, Dean asks, “When will she wake?”

“I cannot say,” the physician says. “It is a grave injury. The external bleeding has stopped, which is a good sign, but her wound was in a place such that it was difficult for me to determine whether or not there was any internal bleeding, so—”

“Just estimate, then.”

“In the best case scenario, which would be if the sword miraculously did not penetrate any major internal organs, she could be mostly recovered in seven days. The fact that she has not bled out yet indicates that none of the major blood vessels near the kidney were pierced, but she could still easily bleed out internally over the course of the next two days. There is a chance that she will never wake,” the physician answers.

Dean clenches his jaw. “Okay. Go.”

In his peripheral vision, Dean sees Michael make some sort of a gesture. Then the physician exits the room, and the door closes.

“Highness, the threat has been eliminated,” Michael says. “We managed to capture three of them alive. If you’d like to take the lead on questioning—”

“No,” Dean says. “Garth can stand in for me. I’ll stay here.”

“Very well.” There’s a knock on the door then, and Michael says, “Excuse me.”

Dean just nods, too focused on Cas. He isn’t really even thinking anything, his mind too filled with white noise to hold anything else. All he knows is that he can’t let Cas out of his sight.

As that thought crosses his mind, he can’t help but remember what he’d seen when he spun around, maybe an hour ago. Cas had still been holding onto her sword, pointed toward Dean, and he’d been confused for all of two seconds before catching sight of the dagger that had fallen to the ground only a few feet from him.

Cas had saved his life, and he’d looked back up to thank her, only to find a look of surprise on her face. Her head had tipped downward, and he had followed her line of sight to the sliver of steel protruding from her stomach.

Everything had gone fuzzy after that. He knows he must have cried out, knows that he was the one who’d lifted her and carried her away while Inias and the guards held off the remaining assassins, but he hardly has any impression of it, his memories distorted by panic and—and raw, unabated _fear_.

It was his fault. Fuck, he never should have turned his back to her. What the hell had he been thinking, running off _in front_ of Cas? He had been _right there_ —she should have been _safe_. He should have protected her. What kind of a shit husband _is_ he?

Clenching his jaw, Dean leans forward in his seat and rests his elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving Cas’s face even though he can hardly make out her features through his tears.

A hand lands on his shoulder. “Highness?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s surprised that his voice isn’t shaking.

“Meg has arrived,” Michael says. “I told her what happened to Castiel, and she says that she’d like to see her master.” When Dean doesn’t say anything immediately, Michael adds, “She’s just—she’s worried.”

“Understandable,” Dean says numbly. “Let her in.”

He blinks once, slowly. The hand on his shoulder squeezes once before pulling away, and Dean’s grateful. He doesn’t want to be touched right now.

Dean doesn’t hear the door open, but he does hear Meg’s hitched breath, her whispered _oh my god_. She falls to her knees next to Dean’s chair, hands finding the edge of the mattress and fisting in the material of the sheets. Dean gets the sense that she would like to hold Cas’s hand, but Dean couldn’t possibly let it go.

“Inias must be worried, too,” Dean hears himself saying even though he doesn’t remember intending to speak. “Send for him. Ash, too.”

“Of course.”

The voice that responds isn’t Michael’s anymore, and Dean places it as Lucifer’s. When did Michael leave the room? Has he already gone to interrogate the assassins?

“I need to assist my brother with interrogations,” Lucifer says, answering Dean’s unasked questions. “If you need anything—”

“I’m fine,” Dean responds. But he’s decidedly _not_ fine, won’t be fine until Cas is.

“I’ll take my leave, then.”

The door opens and closes.

* * *

Dean sits there for hours, untouched by hunger or fatigue.

He only leaves the room once at sunrise to cleanse himself of Cas’s blood and put on a clean shirt. It is then that Ash convinces him to let his wound be taken care of, though it’s long since stopped bleeding. Ash cleans the gash and tries to drag Dean to the physician to get it stitched, but Dean refuses—the physician will be coming in to check on Cas, anyway.

Ash gives Dean an unimpressed look but carefully bandages the gash, a temporary measure until Dean can get proper medical treatment.

Before the physician’s visit, Michael returns to sit with Cas for a while. Dean can’t bring himself to relinquish his seat, so Michael just draws up a second chair and sits beside him for a while.

“If you’d like, I could tell you about her childhood,” Michael offers.

“Do whatever you like,” Dean responds without looking at him.

There’s a pause, and Dean thinks that he might have offended Michael with his lack of enthusiasm. But then the man begins to speak, so maybe he’d only been taking a moment to gather his thoughts.

“I was eleven years old when she was born. Just old enough to ride on hunts with our father. At the time, I was only allowed to carry his bow for him, but it had felt like such an honor.”

He sounds so wistful, and when Dean glances over, Michael’s eyes are distant, lost in the past. He hasn’t paid much attention to Michael’s features until this moment, only saw beard and hair and catalogued it as a part of the disguise, but now that he’s really looking, he can see that Michael’s eyes are the exact same shade as Cas’s. Narrower and sharper, but unquestionably the same hue.

“We were all brought up with strong beliefs in upholding the family honor, in carrying out orders, in knowing our duties. Lucifer was nine at the time, Raphael six, and Gabriel four. As the eldest, and the only one who really understood those things, I… I remember Father took me aside one day, pointed to Elle, and said, ‘Son, from now on, this baby is your responsibility. Don’t let any harm befall her.’

“Then he looked me in the eye and asked if I wanted to hold her. I said yes. I…” Michael pauses here, chuckling, before continuing, “He put her in my arms, and she was… she was so small, and I remember being so terrified of dropping her. She woke up then, and I just remember thinking I hadn’t seen eyes so _big_ on any of my brothers’ faces when they were infants.”

“Her eyes are still big,” Dean comments.

“Yes. I recognized her almost instantly, even after all our years of separation, and despite that… _dreadful_ haircut she gave herself.” Despite the clear distaste in Michael’s voice when he mentions Cas’s haircut, he breaks into a laugh.

“What?” Dean asks, curious despite himself.

“When she was nine, she insisted on learning how to ride. I told her that she had to wait, so of course she went to her other brothers for help. Raphael refused, as I had, but Gabriel and Lucifer chose to teach her. Apparently, it was too much trouble to tie her hair back, so they simply sheared it all off, gave her a boy’s hairstyle. Father was most displeased when he caught sight of her.”

Dean’s lips curl into a small smile as he imagines what Cas would have been like at that age.

“She was… she was a troublemaker. Too clever and too rowdy to play with other girls her age, she spent a lot of time with us,” Michael says. “Father always said that she would have made a better king than any of the four of us.”

Dean wishes he could have known her then, when she was unrestrained and free. The Castiel he married was polite and so concerned with etiquette and propriety that Dean might have suffocated if he hadn’t melted down her walls, found the fiery core of her, and coaxed it from where it hid.

“She excelled at anything she put her mind to,” Michael continues. “It fell to me to teach her most things—archery, swordplay, reading, writing—”

“Politics?” Dean asks, the suddenness of his question startling even himself.

Michael smiles. “She was so curious about everything,” he says. “I did not teach her much in the way of politics, however. Any knowledge she has of the subject she gained on her own, after I left.”

“Why _did_ you leave?” Dean asks, eyes back on Cas.

“Zachariah killed my father,” Michael says calmly, without hesitation, like it’s a fact. “I don’t know how he did it, and I have no proof. But I know he did it.”

“How do you know, then?”

“There was a rebellion going on near the western border—I believe a group of landowners wanted to break away from our kingdom to join yours. Father had been up late several nights in a row, worried about it, and each night, Zachariah came to the castle, allegedly to help him talk things through.

“Then one night, Zachariah didn’t come. I didn’t think much of it. I assumed that our father had already discovered a solution that would satisfy the landowners and convince them to remain our subjects. When Father didn’t come to breakfast the next morning, Lucifer and I went to find him, but he was gone. There was no blood, no trace of a struggle. Nothing was missing, and nothing had been packed away. He was just— _gone_.”

Dean can’t imagine how that would have felt. With his parents, at least he had seen the end coming. Mother was sick for some time before she passed, and Father was severely affected by her death. Cas and her brothers had no closure with their father—one day he was there; the next, he wasn’t. Dean honestly cannot say what he would have done if he’d known who’d done it.

“There was a will, in Father’s handwriting, stating that he left control of the country to Zachariah, even though I was certain he would have chosen Lucifer or me. So even without his suspicious decision not to come to the castle on the night of Father’s disappearance, I would have suspected Zachariah anyway, as he was the one person with the most to gain from Father’s supposed will,” Michael says.

They sit together in silence for a while as Dean mulls over the new information, but he doesn’t think about it for long before storing it in the back of his mind for later; Cas is his priority right now.

“Just out of curiosity, what would you do if you had evidence? Would you declare war?” Michael asks.

“I think I might,” Dean answers. “At the very least, I would break ties with Tarcaelius. I can’t be allies with a man like that.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Michael says. “Your knight was very helpful. Two of the three men have already admitted that they were sent by Zachariah. I know it isn’t proof that Zachariah did anything to my father seven years ago, but it does seem like he’s trying to finish the job, eliminate two people by whom he feels threatened.”

“Yes, it does,” Dean says neutrally.

“You know, this means that he threatened not only our lives, but yours and Castiel’s as well.”

“I know,” Dean says. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t think about that right now. I just want her to wake up.”

Michael nods. “I share your sentiment—there is nothing I want more than to see her healthy.”

Then there is a knock on the door, and the physician enters. Michael stands to give up his seat so that Dean won’t have to get up. The old man sees to Cas first, lifting the covers to make sure that she hasn’t started bleeding anew.

“How is she, Ion?” Michael asks.

“Nothing has changed,” the physician—Ion, apparently—reports. “I have here a medicinal pellet for her to swallow. But she will have to be awake to take it.”

Dean accepts the small glass vial, looking at the little black pellet with suspicion. He’s never understood processed medicine, only knows how to identify which plants have healing qualities in the wild—the knowledge has proven useful in the aftermath of many a battle.

“Can I stitch you up now, sire?” Ion asks.

Dean nods, shifting in his seat to allow for better access to his arm. He hardly flinches through the whole process—he’s had stitches more than once, and this time around, he’s too concerned with Cas’s wellbeing to linger on the pain.

“I’ll leave now,” Michael says, and Dean nods in acknowledgement.

The physician bows out of the room when he’s finished, and silence falls again, broken only by Cas’s slow, labored breaths.

* * *

Late in the evening, the rhythm of Cas’s breathing changes, and Dean sits up straighter, hardly daring to believe his ears. And then—

“Dean,” Cas gasps, and Dean jolts forward.

“Cas! Cas, I’m here—Dean’s here,” he says.

“Dean,” she repeats, fingers tightening around his hand, and the relief he feels is indescribable, incomparable.

“Yes, yes, I’m right here,” Dean says quickly, leaning closer because her eyes look unfocused. And then her gaze centers on his face, and he smiles despite himself. “Hey,” he says. “Cas, you’re going to be all right. You have no idea how much I worried the last time, and you turned out to be just fine. You’re—you’re going to be fine this time, too. I’m sure of it.”

He must sound half-crazed, thoughts tumbling out of his mouth on a loop, but he doesn’t care.

“Dean, the medicine,” Inias reminds him, and shit, how could he have forgotten?

“Right,” Dean says, digging the vial out of his pocket and opening it to take out the pellet. “Cas, you need to swallow this. Meg, water.”

“Here,” Meg says—figures that she would already be prepared.

Dean cradles Cas’s head and neck with one arm and feeds the pellet to her with the other before taking the cup from Meg and holding it to Cas’s lips, tipping some water into her mouth. Cas only winces slightly at the taste before swallowing, and Dean eases her head back onto its pillow, letting Meg take the cup away from him.

Cas’s lips stretch in a smile, but her laugh comes out more like a cough than a laugh. “You’re—you’re okay,” she says, sounding relieved.

“ _Jesus_ , Cas,” Dean says, disbelief coloring his tone. “Yes, I’m fine. Worry about yourself,” he adds, cupping her cheek.

She closes her eyes and tilts her face into his palm, face serene. “Dean,” she breathes, but it already looks like she’s well on her way to falling unconscious again.

“Cas. Cas—”

“She’ll need rest to recover,” Meg says, voice strained with concern.

“Yes, I know,” Dean says, leaning back in his seat and drawing a deep breath. “You can all go to bed. I’ll stay here,” he says, addressing Meg, Inias, and Ash—all three elected to stay with him when it became apparent that he wouldn’t be moving from this spot.

“Dean—” Ash starts.

“Get some rest,” Dean insists.

“We should go,” Inias says quietly.

When Dean finally turns away from Cas to look at the rest of the room, he sees that the three servants all still have worried eyes fixed on Cas. Meg’s eyes are watery and red, like she’s been crying, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen her looking so passionate about anything before. In contrast, every muscle on Inias’s face seems to be pulled tight with restraint. Then his eyes soften, and when Dean sees the reason why—Ash’s hand is wrapped around Inias’s and squeezing tight—he can’t help but stare, startled.

Then the three servants all bow their heads in Dean’s direction and exit the room.

Dean turns back to face Cas as the door swings shut, and he’s silent for a long time, looking at her face. At least she doesn’t seem to be in pain.

A few minutes later, it registers with him that he’s finally alone with his wife, that he can finally talk to her without reservation. “Cas, I demand that you get better. Y’hear me?” he says, eyes beginning to well up again at the helplessness that he can’t keep out of his voice.

He’s suddenly struck by the memory of Father sitting at Mother’s bedside, eyes tight with worry and concern and hope and dread, all wrapped up into a mess of emotion.

Then follows the image of Father’s face after Mother passed, empty and vacant, purposeless.

Bobby practically ran the country for a few months before Father died, and god, he doesn’t know how Father lasted even _that_ long. Looking down at Cas now, Dean can’t guarantee that his chest won’t hollow out completely if she doesn’t make it. A world without Cas isn’t a world that he wants to live in.

He leans down and kisses her forehead. “Cas, please,” he whispers, “don’t leave me.”

* * *

Dean falls asleep in his chair sometime past midnight. When he wakes, he can’t tell what time it is, but the sky outside is still dark.

The room is quiet, eerily still, and it takes Dean’s sleep-addled mind a moment to realize the reason why.

Cas isn’t breathing.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please just bear with me 'til the end of the chapter before giving up on this fic, yes?
> 
> Also, psssst. If you think some of the characters are acting suspicious, it's probably because they are.

Dean immediately calls out for someone to come—servants, guards, anyone. Two men enter the room, and Dean sends them running for the physician.

“God, no,” he whispers, hands shaking. He’s itching to grab onto her shoulders and shake her awake, but he doesn’t know how that will affect her, doesn’t know whether shaking her will only make things worse.

She’s _not breathing_ , a small voice in the back of his mind says. How can it possibly get any worse?

“Shit, Cas, please, just—wake up,” Dean says, voice breaking a little on the last words. He’s aware that people are talking in the hall, but the rushing in his ears is too loud for him to make out what they’re saying, and he doesn’t really care, just—where the hell is that physician?

He reaches one trembling hand out to touch her face, terrified of what he’ll find. When his fingers finally come into contact with her cheek, her skin is cold, and Dean draws a ragged, hitching breath that sounds more like a sob than anything else.

“Oh, fuck,” he curses. “No. No, Cas, _no_ —”

He shifts to sit on the edge of the bed and cups her face between both hands, and god, she’s so cold. How long has she—how long ago did she pass? How long was Dean sitting there, accompanying a soulless body? How could he have slept through her last moments?

A hand rests on his shoulder, pulling him back, and he lets his hands fall to his sides, numb. Someone is talking, but Dean doesn’t want to hear it.

“Leave,” Dean says.

“I’m here to see—”

It’s the physician, but no amount of medical attention will bring Cas back to him—Dean has been around enough dead bodies to know one when he sees one.

“Out!” Dean barks, shoving the hand off his shoulder.

“Highness…” Michael’s voice comes from right behind Dean, softer.

Dean bites back the demand for him to leave as well. He is still Cas’s brother, after all. He was indirectly the cause for her death, but she cared for him enough to put herself in danger, so she would want Dean to treat him well.

“The physician is no longer necessary,” Dean says in a low voice. “She’s gone.”

The silence following Dean’s words is heavy, broken only by a soft thud, and Dean can’t tell solely by ear who has just fallen to the ground, but his best guess is that it’s Meg.

“I am… sorry,” Michael says.

“As am I,” Dean replies.

He finally turns away from Cas, looking over at the rest of the room. Unsurprisingly, Michael is standing closest to him and must have been the one to lay a hand on his shoulder. Ash and Inias are positioned farther away, on either side of the door, and as Dean guessed, Meg is kneeling, sitting back on her heels. Ion, the physician, is just inside the door.

“Where’s your brother?” Dean asks.

“He’s resting,” Michael says. “I… I don’t know how I’ll tell him.”

Dean understands this completely. He’d been the first of his brothers to hear about each death in his family—Bobby John, then Mother, and finally Father. He hadn’t had to say anything to Sam and Adam about Bobby John because Mother and Father had taken care of it, but when Mother passed, Father hadn’t been able to leave her side, and it fell to Dean to break the news to his younger brothers. It had been extremely difficult to begin—though it wasn’t through any fault of his that Mother was gone, it still felt like he was the one who was taking her away from his brothers.

“I could send Inias or Meg,” Dean offers.

“No,” Michael says. “No, it would not be right for him to hear the news from anyone else. I’ll go to him now.” He turns away and says to the other people in the room, “Let’s leave him in peace.”

The room empties, and Dean just stares at the vacant spaces left behind. He has a hard time turning back to look at Cas, doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it. But finally he turns his head, and the sight of Cas there, unnaturally still, makes him ache. He starts to reach out for her, but fuck, he can’t—

It occurs to him then that he’ll never see her eyes open again, never see her smile again. She’ll never cook for him, never laugh at him, never talk to him again.

He’d been so close to tears when he’d had hope, when he’d thought that they might make it through this all and return to the castle together.

Now, though.

Now, he looks at her, and it’s like he doesn’t feel anything anymore. He was so sure that he’d lose it if she passed, so sure that he’d break down in tears, but his eyes are dry.

He hasn’t even been married to this woman for three months yet, has known her for even less than that amount of time, and he has no idea how she sank so deeply into him, deep enough that he doesn’t know how he’ll go on without her. How will he return to their bedchamber night after night without seeing her seated at the desk, reading through her latest book? How will he rest without her at his side?

She wouldn’t want to see him like this, Dean is sure. She’s always been so concerned with his thoughts and concerns, his _feelings_ , and he’s certain that she would want him to mourn for a while and then recover.

Cas would want him to be happy, but damn it, how can he be happy without her?

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and then it opens and closes. Dean doesn’t bother turning to greet the intruder, waiting for him or her to speak.

“Dean,” Meg says.

“I will give you some time alone with her. Just—let me have a few more minutes,” Dean says.

“Thank you, but that is not why I’m here.”

“What do you want, then?”

Meg hesitates before answering, “I just hoped that I could… talk to you for a while.”

“I’m not going to be much good for conversation.”

“You don’t need to respond to me,” Meg says. “I just ask that you listen.”

“Talk, then,” Dean says.

“I’ve served Elle since I was nine and she seven—I’ve served her for more than half of my life. I may have been her servant, but I have also been one of her closest friends, and her confidante. And from the perspective of her friend, I just wanted to tell you that she misses—missed—that she valued her brothers very highly. There was nothing you could have done to stop her from coming here. She only chose to keep her trip secret from you because—”

“I know,” Dean interrupts. “She told me already.”

After a pause, Meg says, “Inias told me how it happened—he saw it all. It must have already occurred to you that she only stopped paying attention to her surroundings because she was so concerned with stopping the knife that was meant for you, but you shouldn’t blame yourself. Elle cared for you very deeply, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that she…” Meg draws a deep breath and releases it slowly before finishing, “She died with no regrets in her heart.”

Dean finally turns his head to look at the maid and sees that her head is down, hands clasped together in front of her. “Thank you, Meg.”

Meg shakes her head. “I know that Elle was kind and forgiving in most matters, but in this… we must avenge her. Michael and Lucifer are less likely to bring it up with you, but they want it as well—they’ve wanted vengeance against the king for his treachery all those years before, and I would be lying if I said that Elle felt differently.”

“Don’t worry—Zachariah won’t know what hit him,” Dean promises.

* * *

Two days later, Dean rides into the capital accompanied by Ash, Michael, Lucifer, and a few guards from their compound. He left Inias, Meg, and Garth to escort Cas’s body home—Dean had originally wanted to escort her himself, but he’d decided that his time would be better spent preparing the country for battle. It had taken Michael and Lucifer only a few hours to make preparations, and they had ridden out just before noon.

When Dean returns to the castle, he sends for Jo and Anna and has them set up comfortable living quarters for Michael and Lucifer. As soon as that’s been done, he goes to Sam’s study. But his brother isn’t there, and Dean supposes it makes sense—Sam should be meeting with nobles during Dean’s absence.

So he goes to the throne room and pushes open the doors, because no issue of the nobles will take precedence over war, and this time, Dean has his mind set on it.

“Dean,” Sam says, surprised. He’s sitting on the throne with Bobby to his right, and the two men seated near the center of the room turn in their seats—Barons Lugosi and Kubrick.

“I’m back,” Dean says needlessly.

“Highness,” the two barons chorus, getting out of their chairs as Dean strides past them.

“I know it’s highly irregular, but I’ll have to ask you two to return another time,” Dean says, sparing a moment to look them in the eyes because he should at least have _some_ manners.

“Of course,” Baron Lugosi says, bowing once before heading for the still-open doors. Kubrick is a little less gracious, but he bows as well and exits the room.

“We’re going to war,” Dean says as soon as Ash has closed the doors.

“Tell me you’re joking,” Bobby says, eyes narrowed.

“Dean, what’s wrong? Did you find Cas?” Sam asks.

“Oh yeah, I found her, all right,” Dean says, and something must show in his voice, because Sam suddenly looks paler. And then Dean adds, “She’s dead.”

“No,” Sam says quietly.

“Aw, son—” Bobby starts.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean says. “The assassins were sent by Zachariah to kill two of Cas’s brothers, who have been hiding on the border for the past few years. I brought them back to the castle for their safety.”

“Dean…”

“Don’t fight me on this. I know you didn’t want it to come to this, but they killed Cas. I can’t let them get away with that.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sam says, getting to his feet.

“No. No, you need to stay here. If anything happens to me—”

“You aren’t getting any stupid ideas, are you?” Bobby asks, brows furrowed.

“I’m not suicidal,” Dean says impatiently.

“I think we should at least meet her brothers before we go straight to war,” Sam says. “It isn’t that we don’t trust you,” he adds quickly. “I just feel that it’d be better if we could talk to them before taking such a drastic step.”

“Fine. We’re all hungry from the ride, so we’ll talk over supper,” Dean says.

“Okay, then,” Sam says. Dean starts for the door, but Sam stops him by asking, “Dean, did you mean to say _three_ brothers?”

“No,” Dean says. “Michael and Lucifer were the brothers who were threatened.”

“What about her third missing brother?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know,” Dean answers, shaking his head. “He wasn’t with them. I didn’t think to ask. Didn’t he leave after Michael and Lucifer, anyway? Maybe they never got into contact with each other.”

“Maybe,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Go on. Bobby and I will go to the dining hall in a few minutes.”

Dean exits the room and heads straight toward the dining hall—he knows that he’ll have to go back to his bedchamber eventually, but he’s going to put it off as long as possible.

“Go to the kitchens and tell Richard that Bobby and two guests will be joining us for supper—and that I’ve returned, obviously,” Dean says to Ash as they walk. “Have them send people to the guests’ chambers to summon Michael and Lucifer. Then send word to Gordon and Caleb that the search for Lilith can wait and that I want them back in the capital as soon as possible. When that’s done, go to Victor and tell him that I’ll want to talk to him in my study after he’s finished taking his meal.”

“Going,” Ash says, taking off at a light jog toward the kitchen.

Dean goes the rest of the way to the dining room in silence and sits down to wait.

* * *

Adam is the first to arrive for supper—apparently, Kate ran into Jo in the hall and went to tell Adam as soon as she learned that Dean was back. He is speechless with Dean tells him that Cas is dead.

“How—”

“She was murdered,” Dean says shortly.

“I thought she was just on a hunting trip,” Adam says quietly, slumping back into his chair.

“It’s… I’d rather not talk about it. I brought two of her brothers back to the castle, though.”

“Was it under King Zachariah’s orders, then?” Adam asks.

Dean sighs. “Yes.”

“Are we… are we at war, then?”

“Not yet.”

Then Michael and Lucifer are led into the room by Jo and Anna, and though Lucifer looks the same as he had when they left the complex, but Dean hardly recognizes Michael, who has shaved the beard and cut his hair, probably because he no longer has a need to hide his identity. Without his facial hair and scraggly locks, the resemblance between him and Cas is obvious, and Dean tries his best not to stare.

He gestures for them to sit to Adam’s left—Sam will, as usual, take the seat to Dean’s right. It’s awkwardly silent for a moment, and then Sam and Bobby enter the room, and Dean stands to make introductions.

When everyone has been introduced, servants from the kitchens arrive with food. It’s quiet while they eat, Sam and Bobby seemingly having decided to let them get through supper first before starting on the questions.

Richard comes in person with the last dishes, and after they’re served, Dean is about to start eating when he realizes that Richard has fallen to his knees.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks before Dean can.

“I’ve committed a crime punishable by death,” Richard says, more serious than Dean thinks he’s ever seen him.

Dean is about to ask for an explanation, but he’s distracted by the look on Michael’s face, the way he’s gone pale. “What is it?” he asks, concerned.

“Gabriel,” Michael responds. “He’s Gabriel.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It’s true,” Richard—apparently _Gabriel_ —responds. “Fate brought me here after leaving Tarcaelius, and when I was recruited to work in the castle as a cook, I kept my true identity a secret because I feared for my life.”

“Did Cas know about this?” Dean asks.

“No,” Gabriel says. “Not until the day before she left. I’d been searching for my brothers for all this time, and I still had a friend within the Tarcaelian royal guard—he told me that my uncle discovered Michael and Lucifer on the Laurentian side of the border. But I couldn’t just leave, so I had to make myself known to Elle, because she’d be able to go find them.” He draws a shaky breath then and says, “If I’d known that she would—that she would—”

“How is it that Castiel didn’t recognize you?” Sam asks. “It seems Michael knew you immediately.”

“She was only twelve when she last saw me, and I’ve… I’ve changed my manners and appearance very much since then. I had far more forceful a character in my youth, so it makes sense that she wouldn’t have noticed. Michael has been in hiding as well, so it stands to reason that he would know what to look for,” Gabriel explains.

“Before we say anything else, stand,” Dean says. “You’ve been here for longer than I can remember—you know we don’t kneel.”

“Thank you,” Gabriel says, getting to his feet, and even the way he holds himself is different from the Richard Dean knew—or _thought_ he knew—so well.

“Ash, grab a chair,” Dean says. “Gabriel will be joining us.”

After Gabriel is seated, Dean dismisses all the servants in the room and has the doors closed. It’s silent for a moment longer, and it seems like everyone’s waiting for him to speak, but he suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

“Well?” Bobby finally says.

Dean knows that he needs to talk at this point, so he says, “Cas was murdered under orders from King Zachariah of Tarcaelius, her own uncle. Her brothers were able to get confessions from three assassins, with Garth’s help. Former Prince Michael also explained to me the details that led him and his brother to leave the Tarcaelian capital seven years ago, and it is reasonable to conclude that the current king had a hand the former king’s disappearance.”

“Are you sure of this?” Bobby says. “When we heard of what had happened, relations with the Tarcaelians were still hostile, and it would have been improper for us to investigate.”

“I believe it,” Dean says.

“Why?” Sam asks. Looking over at Michael and Lucifer, he adds, “I don’t mean to question their honesty or your judgment, but this is a matter of great importance.”

“If you wouldn’t mind repeating your story, Michael,” Dean says.

Michael nods and directs his next words at Sam and Bobby. “I’m not sure you’ll remember, but at the time, a group of landowners rebelled against the crown, aiming to cross the border into your land. My uncle entered the castle one night after another under the pretense of helping my father find a solution. Finally, one night, I noticed that he hadn’t come to the castle. The following morning, Father had disappeared, leaving behind a will that passed the throne on to Zachariah.”

He sounds much more composed than he had when he was speaking with Dean, but that makes sense. Cas had still been—but no, he can’t let his thoughts linger in that direction.

“It is only speculation, but there was no evidence back then, so it’d be near impossible to find any now, years after the fact,” Michael finishes.

“So you can’t be sure of his involvement,” Bobby says.

“No.”

“But you have confessions implicating him in Castiel’s murder,” Adam says.

“Yes,” Michael confirms.

Adam glances over at Dean. “It’s more than enough reason to go to war, then.”

“Before we declare war, we need to determine our goals—what will we be fighting for? What do we want if we win?” Bobby asks.

“King Zachariah’s punishment, of course,” Sam says. Looking at Cas’s brothers, he says, “I’m sure you already have a sentence in mind.”

“Death is sufficient,” Michael says.

“No,” Lucifer says. “It is easy to die. Living on is suffering.”

“How would you like him punished, then?” Sam asks.

“I want him imprisoned and his sons killed,” Lucifer says. “Only that kind of loss would be comparable to what we experienced at his hands.”

“It is fitting, perhaps, but don’t you think that’s a little too cruel?” Sam asks. “I’ve never met Prince Uriel, but Prince Balthazar was here some time ago, and he was not unkind. To kill the sons for the sins of the father might be excessive.”

“I’d be satisfied with his death, to be honest,” Gabriel says. “As long as my brothers and I can be reinstated, I’d much rather see our uncle die than our cousins.”

“That’s another question. Should Tarcaelius fall, will we take its territory into ours and unite the land?” Adam asks, eyes on Dean.

“No,” Sam answers before Dean can. It’s a good thing too, because though Michael and Lucifer don’t have any visible reaction, Gabriel noticeably stiffens. Sam continues, “If Laurentia takes Tarcaelian land, it’ll disrupt the balance between the Three Kingdoms. Devia will feel threatened, and we don’t want to ruin the longstanding peaceful relations between our nations.”

“I agree,” Bobby says. “It would be far better to support a new king in place of the current one. Though I am not very clear on the current state of Tarcaelius, the knowledge that their king sent assassins to kill his own niece and nephews will help us in reinstating the former princes.”

“Would that be satisfactory to you?” Dean asks, looking over at each of Cas’s brothers in turn.

“I think the more important question is whether or not it would be satisfactory to you,” Michael responds.

“I only want him punished for his crimes,” Dean says.

“In that case, then yes, it would be satisfactory,” Michael says.

“Then we go to war,” Dean says.

* * *

That night, Dean writes two copies of a war declaration. The first is sent by carrier pigeon, and the second is given to one of his riders, in case the pigeon fails to make its destination. He spends hours with Victor, developing strategies, anticipating the enemy’s potential responses, and devising counterattacks. He sends the knight away late in the night and thinks about going back to his bedchamber, but he can’t, not yet, and ends up sleeping in his study.

The next morning, Dean announces Cas’s death to the capital and makes it known that they will be going to war. He declares a day of national mourning and dispatches riders to bring the news to the major cities. Finished, he retreats to his chambers, leaving the initial war preparations to Sam and Victor.

He spends the remainder of the day in his bedchamber, finally allowing himself to remember all the time he and Cas passed together here. Seated on his bed, he looks around the room and sees Cas everywhere—at the vanity, having her hair done up by Anna or Meg; at the wardrobe, asking Dean what color dress he’d like her to wear; at the desk, reading a book; at the bookshelf, slowly running her fingers over the spines of the books and thanking Dean for his thoughtfulness.

“Damn it, Cas,” he whispers.

They’re the last words he says that day.

* * *

Three days later, Dean’s armies are gathered and prepared for battle. The response to his declaration of war had been direct, concise: _We will meet you on the battlefield._

So Dean commands his men to eat and sleep well tonight so that they’ll be rested and ready to march out tomorrow morning. Then he has one last meeting with three of his four knights—Gordon and Caleb returned two days ago, and Garth is supposed to arrive with—he’s supposed to arrive late tonight. Michael and Lucifer are present as well; they were trained with the Tarcaelian army and thus have been useful in predicting how the Tarcaelians might respond when faced with various tactics.

When they’re finished with their discussion, they sup together before parting ways for the night.

By then it is near sundown, so Dean rides out to visit his parents’ graves; it is tradition to go to one’s parents for luck the night before battle, and while it’ll be a few days yet before Dean actually gets to a battlefield, this is the night before he leaves the capital, so it’s close enough.

Sam and Adam offer to accompany him, but it is a trip best made alone, and Dean would like the privacy, anyway. As much as it hurts to be alone with his thoughts about Cas, it’s worse to be with people who knew her, people who look at him sorrowfully, pitifully. People who say _I’m sorry_ and then proceed to _talk_ about her. He knows it isn’t fair to think this way, knows that they’re only trying to make him feel better, but their apologies are useless, wasted breath—nothing will make him feel better, because nothing will bring her back to him.

He hasn’t been in his bedchamber since that day of mourning, too haunted by Cas’s memories to venture back inside—too afraid that he’d lose himself in those memories and never emerge.

He’s since had a cot moved into his study, pushed up against the side of his desk. Sam had looked at it with disapproval, but he hadn’t said a word. The knights had tactfully ignored it, though Dean’s sure Garth would have had something to say.

When he reaches the cemetery, he slides off his horse and ties its reins around a tree before making his way in the direction of Mother and Father’s headstones.

He feels like he has so much to tell them, yet when he finally reaches their grave markers, he doesn’t know what to say. He looks at the large stones, eyes lingering on the carefully carved lettering, and sighs.

“Mother, Father, I’m here today because I—because I ride out to battle tomorrow,” he finally says. “Neither of you approved of war, I know, and I wish it could be avoided, but…”

He pauses here, a little choked up, and clears his throat.

“Do you remember the wife I told you about when I was last here?” he gets out, forcing his voice to remain steady even as his eyes begin to well up. “Her uncle—the one who came to us and suggested a marriage to bring peace between our nations—gave out orders for her brothers to be murdered, and she died protecting them. Protecting _me_. And I can’t—”

He can’t _continue_ , voice breaking, and as he attempts to blink his tears away, he looks up at the sky. It is resplendent, splashed with bright streaks of pink and purple that sharpen and blur with each blink, so beautiful that Dean feels like fate is mocking him, taking away the most beautiful thing in his life and replacing it with something that could never compare.

He drops to his knees, and as he does, the sun begins its descent behind the mountains, allowing the sky to darken.

“I told you that I’d bring her to see you, didn’t I?” Dean says quietly. “She was injured soon after my last visit and was confined to her bed for some time. I… I can’t believe I forgot. And now… now, she’s gone. I’m sorry.”

Looking between his parents’ graves, he can’t help but remember the last time he saw them together, the last words he’d heard between them. Mother had told Father to smile, had said that she couldn’t bear it when he was cross, whether or not it was with her. Father had said that he was _very_ cross with her, that he’d be so angry if she left him. She’d laughed weakly, eyes never leaving Father’s face, and then she’d told Dean to leave the room, said that she had to have a private word with Father.

He’d gone, and by the time he’d returned, she had fallen unconscious and remained that way until she passed—Dean never heard another word from her. He’d missed her departure, just as surely as he’d missed Cas’s, and he closes his eyes, attempting to compose himself.

“I miss you, Mother, Father,” he confesses. “I hope she uh, I hope she’s found you, wherever you are. I hope she’s told you all about us, all about the things I haven’t had time to tell you.” He opens his eyes again, sees that night has fallen. “And if you’re with them, Cas, I just—” his voice breaks, and he looks down at the ground, vision blurry. “Don’t wander too far, Cas. I’ll see you soon.”

He gets to his feet, turns away, and takes a few steps away from the grave, heading back to the tree where he’d tied up his horse. But before he’s gotten more than a few steps away, he stops himself, because he’s not done yet.

He returns to the grave—Cas’s body may not be here, but her spirit might just be with those of his parents. Looking up at the now-dark sky, he says, “There’s—there’s just one other thing that I never uh, never had the chance to say to you. And I guess it’s too late now, but you…” he pauses, licking his lips. “You knew, right? You must have known.”

“Dean.”

Dean freezes, terror and disbelief and fucking _jubilation_ rioting in his chest, each fighting for dominance at the sound of this familiar voice. He turns slowly, and sure enough, the love of his life is standing several yards away, as alive as ever.

“Cas?”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy November! Also, yay for Daylight Savings this weekend bc we get to gain an hour:D
> 
> In other news, I know that this chapter is a bit short, but it contains kind of a lot of important stuff, so. What it lacks in length, hopefully it makes up in substance. Also, the updates are most likely going back up to a weekly rate. One-a-day updates is relatively rare for my fics, haha.

Castiel wakes slowly.

It takes longer than she can remember it taking, each part of her body seeming to regain feeling on its own, starting from the fingers on her left hand and slowly spreading up her arm. The fingers on her right hand twitch, brushing against her hip, and feeling seems to return and spread from that area as well. And then she can flex her ankles, the muscles in her feet and calves coming back to life.

It is only after she has regained sensation in all parts of her body that her eyelids respond to her command and flutter open. It takes more effort than she’d expected, and the world is just a smear of indistinct shapes, blurred colors.

She blinks, licks her lips, and coughs. The air seems to rasp against her throat, making it burn, and even the pain feels good—she _feels_.

“Elle!”

The voice seems far away, but then a new shape moves into her field of vision, hovering somewhere above her.

“Elle? Oh thank god, Elle. Can you hear me?”

Castiel draws another breath and coughs again. She’s distantly aware of her torso being lifted, each touch familiar yet foreign to her newly wakened nerves, and then something is pressing against her lips. Water laps against her mouth, and she parts her lips to let it in, grateful for the soothing effect it has on her dry—too-dry—throat.

Outlines slowly become defined, and as the cup is lowered, Castiel takes in an unfamiliar room, small and dark, lit only by a few candles set on a round table. It must be nighttime.

Licking her lips again, Castiel says, in a voice she hardly recognizes as her own, “Dean?”

“He’s not here right now.”

“Meg,” Castiel says, finally identifying the speaker. “Where is Dean?”

“He isn’t—I mean—I’ll explain, I promise. Just—do you need anything? More water? You… you must be starving. Let me—”

“I am not,” Castiel says firmly, a little frightened by how flustered Meg sounds. She rarely gets worked up like this, and it only makes Castiel worry. “Has something happened to Dean? Is he all right?”

“He’s fine,” Meg says quickly. She presses the cup back to Castiel’s lips, and Castiel drinks, allowing her maid to have the time she wants.

Then Meg lowers Castiel back to the bed and shifts to sit next to her, eyes on the ground.

“Meg, talk to me,” Castiel says. “Please.”

Meg hesitates for a moment longer before responding with, “I promise you that Dean’s life is not in danger. Not—not yet, at least.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Castiel asks, alarmed.

“I—” Meg starts, but she cuts herself off, and Castiel reaches one hand out to grasp her arm. “Elle, it’s—god, I—” she pulls her arm away, using that hand to wipe at her eyes, and she’s—why is she _crying?_ “You were unconscious for three full days. Ion said that it’d only last two at the most, and I just—I thought that we’d really killed you.”

Tears are rolling down her cheeks now, and Castiel doesn’t understand. Though now that Meg mentions her being unconscious, Castiel remembers the stab wound, remembers lying in a different room—the ceiling had had a different pattern—and this makes no sense. Meg wasn’t there when the compound was attacked, so how did she get here? And how could she have killed Castiel when Castiel is still alive and well?

Meg turns slightly toward Castiel then, raising reddened eyes to Castiel’s face. “I’m sorry,” she says between sobs. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says. “Explain.”

Meg takes a moment to calm down, wiping again at her eyes and sniffling. “It started when Zachariah killed your father,” she says, and Castiel frowns.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Please, just let me explain.”

Castiel nods and waits for Meg to continue.

“We were still young at the time—you eleven and I thirteen. Michael and Lucifer were afraid that Zachariah would kill them too, since they were his biggest threats to a secure reign. So they chose to leave, but they’d always planned to keep in contact with Raphael. They intended to wait until they had an opportunity to return to Tarcaelius and take their rightful places.”

So Castiel was right in suspecting that Raphael had had contact with her brothers as well—she really was the only one left out. Why? Did they think her too young to keep the secret? Did they not trust her?

Meg goes on, “A year later, they pulled Gabriel into their scheme, having decided that they needed someone within Laurentian castle walls. I don’t know how many plans they devised and discarded, but—”

“Raphael suggested my marriage to Dean,” Castiel whispers suddenly, not trusting her voice.

“Yes,” Meg says. “I don’t know when they decided on this course of action, but they had to wait until you were of proper age to be wed, and—”

“Did you know about this?”

“Elle—”

“When Zachariah summoned me to the palace, did you already know what he was going to tell me?” Castiel demands, a chill running down her spine.

“Yes,” Meg admits. “They didn’t tell me what the plan was until a few weeks before Raphael made the suggestion, but I… I knew that they were in contact with one another from the beginning. Lucifer told me before he left that he would need my help someday.”

“Why didn’t you say something to me? Why couldn’t _they_ tell me?”

“They thought you were too young,” Meg says. “And then they settled on this plan, and your ignorance of it was essential to its success.”

Castiel closes her eyes. “You said that I’ve been unconscious for three days, and Dean’s gone.” She pauses, heart heavy, and concludes, “He thinks I’m dead.”

“He does,” Meg confirms. “The pill that Dean gave you to swallow was given to him by Michael’s physician. It is made from the petals of a rare flower, one that can give the appearance of death for up to two days. I had one on me, but Michael and Lucifer had plenty more at their compound.”

“My brothers used my death to propel Dean into a war against Tarcaelius,” Castiel deduces, numb.

“Yes,” Meg says.

Closing her eyes, Castiel says, “If they were involved from the beginning, I want to know what other events they orchestrated. Leave nothing out.”

“Before the plan could be carried out, they needed to make sure that Dean truly cared for you first. After all, it was an arranged marriage, and if he didn’t care about you, then he wouldn’t be set on waging war against your murderer,” Meg says. “So Gabriel and I were to keep an eye on your relationship and report back to them. When it seemed you two had arrived at a standstill, Michael and Lucifer conceived a means to push you forward.”

“The attack from Lilith,” Castiel recalls, feeling ill. “Those were my brothers’ men, weren’t they? I… I’d sensed that something was wrong, because those assassins chose not to use sleeping powder on Dean and me even though they clearly had enough to put all our servants to sleep.”

“Gabriel helped the assassins through the castle gates under the pretense of guarding a shipment of meat; they were allowed to sleep with the other workers from the kitchens because the shipment had arrived late. I made sure the other servants had fallen asleep before using the sleeping powder on myself, and then the assassins scaled the walls to your window to attack,” Meg explains.

“And Lilith?”

“Dead. Your brothers kept her as a guest until they knew that their purpose had been achieved—that is, until they knew that you and Dean had grown closer—and then they killed her.”

“What if the assassins accidentally killed one of us?” Castiel asks.

Meg shakes her head. “They were under strict orders to make you their priority, to harm and not kill. I believe they were told to mostly ignore Dean. After all, it would… it would have made him feel guilty for you to have ended up hurt on his behalf. He’d feel gratitude, too, and from that combination of emotion, his regard for you would grow.”

“So Dean, finding his way to the compound—that was your doing as well,” Castiel says.

Meg nods guiltily. “You were actually never supposed to make it here. Michael and Lucifer’s men, disguised as members of the Tarcaelian royal guard, were supposed to chase you, slow you down until Dean caught up with you, and then wound you gravely before his eyes. I was supposed to travel on with him and feed you the pill, but Dean insisted on leaving me behind.

“But you changed your appearance, so your brothers’ men must have missed you. Instead, you reached the compound, and Dean found you. But the plan was even easier to execute on their own ground, and well… you know the rest.”

“They could have killed me,” Castiel says, a hand resting over her stomach. Clenching her abdomen, she only feels slightly sore. It’s miraculous that she’s alive at all, after having been run clean through like that.

“It was a strategic wound,” Meg says. “The men were instructed to avoid major blood vessels and organs—especially near your kidneys, as you would have bled out faster than we could carry you away from the fight. As it is, you are already mostly recovered.”

Castiel is silent for a long moment, just trying to process the information. Her entire marriage was nothing more than a—a convenient arrangement, a hoax, a way for her brothers to sink their hooks into Dean and get him to fight this war for them.

“I need to go,” Castiel says, sitting up. It hurts, and Meg is instantly there, grabbing onto her shoulders to stop her.

“Elle, you can’t—”

“I need to tell Dean. I need him to know—need to stop everything—”

“The world already thinks you’re dead, Elle,” Meg says. “This morning, Dean declared today to be a day of mourning. And he announced his intentions to go to war. The news reached us by afternoon.”

“I don’t care what the world thinks,” Castiel says. “Dean said—he said he couldn’t lose me. I can’t let him go on thinking that I’m dead when I’m not.” The mere thought of it makes her sick to her stomach.

“The workers at the compound have already gone through rituals and rites with another body, Elle. They’ve embalmed your double and placed her in the coffin. Sir Garth will be escorting it back to—”

“That’s perfect, then,” Castiel says. “Switch it out with me. I’ll leave here in the coffin.”

“Elle, you can’t just—the coffin is guarded,” Meg says.

Castiel sighs. “Summon Inias for me.”

“But he doesn’t even know that you’re—”

“I don’t care,” Castiel says. “I’ve treated you like my closest friend, like a _sister_ , for all these years, and you’ve been keeping such a huge secret from me the whole time. I don’t think you have a say in what I do with the rest of my life.”

“Elle—”

“Get Inias, or I’ll walk out of this room and find him myself.”

Meg gets to her feet and backs away, visibly stung. “All right.”

“No—you know what, find Garth too.”

“ _What?_ Are you _crazy?_ ”

“No. I’m going to tell Dean everything. I already don’t plan on keeping this secret—I might as well tell all the people who are near enough to hear,” Castiel says.

“Elle, please don’t,” Meg says.

“If you still consider me your master and your friend, your _family_ —if you want even a _chance_ at redeeming yourself for all that you’ve done behind my back, you will do this for me,” Castiel insists.

Meg leaves the room without another word.

* * *

The next morning, Garth, Inias, and Meg escort Castiel’s coffin back toward the castle. When they’re sufficiently far from the compound, they let her out and purchase a horse for her, leaving the coffin behind. They spend that day and most of the next on the road, having to stop now and then because Castiel simply cannot go on, too affected by her still-healing wound to continue riding.

By the time they come close to the capital, it is already late afternoon, almost suppertime, and though Castiel is in pain, she insists that they push on. Garth gives her a skeptical look but doesn’t argue.

He’d been surprisingly supportive when she told him everything. He had been angry on Dean’s behalf, of course, but he had said that he understood Castiel wasn’t at fault. Inias hadn’t said much, though he’d thrown more than one glare in Meg’s direction.

They’d all agreed that it’d be best if Michael and Lucifer’s men didn’t know that Castiel was leaving the compound—they weren’t certain how much the men knew, so it was safest to continue as though they were going along with the plan. The men hadn’t mentioned anything about Castiel being alive, and Meg had confessed that she didn’t know whether or not anyone else knew, other than Ion, the physician.

The city walls loom up ahead as they break out of the trees, and Castiel hurries onward, thoughts falling away from her mind under the more pressing matter of finding Dean and telling him the truth.

When they reach the castle, Garth leaves them to meet with the other knights—apparently there are battle plans he needs to be familiar with. Castiel heads straight for her chambers, sending Inias into the stables to take care of the horses. Meg follows her up, and Castiel is surprised by how empty the place looks. Where is everyone?

She enters her bedchamber and sees that it’s empty, tidy. Frowning, she goes back into the antechamber and knocks on the door to her servants’ quarters, but no one answers. She’s crossing the room to knock on the other door when Jo enters, and her jaw drops, eyes going wide.

“It’s really me—I’m not dead,” Castiel says quickly. “Where is Dean?”

“Uh, he—he’s at the royal cemetery,” Jo says, clearly still working through the shock. “How—how are you—”

“Meg, tell her whatever she wants to know. The truth,” Castiel says before rushing out of the room and toward the stables. She runs into Inias on his way up and stops him—“Do you know how to get to the royal cemetery?” she asks.

“I have never been there, but in theory, yes,” Inias answers.

“Good. We’re going there now,” Castiel says, continuing toward the stables. “Did you see anyone else on the way in?”

“No,” Inias replies. “Are you certain you don’t want to talk to your brothers first?”

“I am,” Castiel replies.

Reprimanding her brothers for _using_ her like this is certainly one of the foremost things she intended to do upon reaching the castle, but the most important task at hand is putting Dean’s mind at ease.

* * *

At the cemetery, Castiel finds Dean’s horse tied to a tree and leaves her own in Inias’s guard, giving him orders to stay there and await their return. Then she makes her way between the headstones, searching for her husband. It doesn’t take long for her to spot him, standing in the distance.

“There’s just one other thing that I never uh, never had the chance to say to you,” Dean’s saying as Castiel approaches from behind him, walking past one grave after another. “And I guess it’s too late now, but you… you knew, right?” he asks, sounding heartbroken, and Castiel comes to a stop, on the verge of tears. “You must have known.”

“Dean,” she says, trying and failing to keep her voice from shaking.

He stiffens and turns around, maddeningly slowly, and says, as though he hardly dares to hope, “Cas?”

Their eyes meet for a long moment, and then Castiel says, redundantly, “I’m alive.”

Dean crosses the space between them in two large steps and wraps his arms around her, crushing her to his chest. “You’re—really you,” he whispers into the top of her head, and his entire body seems to be quivering. “God, Cas, I—am I dreaming? Is this a dream?”

“It’s real,” Castiel says, finally regaining control over her arms and reaching up to cling at the backs of his shoulders. “It’s all real, Dean. I’m alive.”

“But—but how? I saw you, Cas. You were dead,” Dean says.

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately, and Dean doesn’t press, just holds on tight, as though he’s afraid that she’ll disappear as soon as they part. But eventually Castiel pulls her hands back and pushes at his chest, gently. He backs up only slightly, arms dropping to rest around her waist, keeping their bodies close together.

She relates the story quickly and concisely, hardly daring to look at his face. But through it all, he doesn’t say a word, and she can’t stop herself from peeking to gauge his reaction, from catching glimpses of his expression, watching as it changes from confusion to concern, anger to betrayal. His hands fall away from her waist as he takes one step back, followed by another, and the distance makes her ache.

“Dean, please,” she says, “don’t look at me like that.”

“How am I _supposed_ to look at you?” Dean asks. “Cas, I—how could you do this to me? To anyone?”

Castiel stares at him in disbelief. Dean thinks—he thinks that she was party to it all. He thinks that she participated in this scheme _willingly_. “I never wanted any of this to happen, Dean,” she says. “I didn’t—I had no idea what my brothers had in store for me—for us.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Frustrated, Castiel says, “If I were part of their scheme, I would have stayed hidden, Dean. What good would it do me to appear before you now, just before I’d get what I wanted?”

“I don’t know how your mind works. Don’t expect me to figure it out,” Dean says, turning away, and Castiel thinks she knows what heartbreak feels like now.

“Dean, please. I would never have done this to you of my own free will—I promise,” she says, reaching out to touch his arm.

He remains turned away from her and says, “War has already been declared. It’s too late for us to turn back now. I’ll fight this war for you and your brothers, but—”

“No, Dean, I don’t—” Castiel tries to interject.

But Dean just talks over her, his next words seeming to pierce right through her, “—when it is over, I never want to see you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll get Dean's thoughts in the next chapter. Perhaps I'll put that one up tomorrow, and _then_ I'll go back to once a week. Yes? There won't be that many chapters left, after this. I'm anticipating wrapping it all up by Chapter 24. Maybe 25.


	20. Chapter 20

As soon as Dean returns to the castle, he sends Inias to summon Cas’s brothers—he needs to speak with them now, needs to make some things clear before they ride out together.

He can’t really take back the war declaration, not after accusing Zachariah of sending assassins when he didn’t—the insult won’t be forgiven lightly, and Dean would rather go to war than give Zachariah leverage to negotiate the Tarcaelian-Laurentian border. The war may be unavoidable, but it doesn’t mean he has to let Cas’s brothers get exactly what they want.

Cas follows him into his study, and he doesn’t send her away. It’ll be better to have her here, anyway. So that there’ll be no doubt that their scheme has been unraveled. Her eyes rest on the cot that’s still in the room, and it looks like she wants to say something, but after she looks at him, she seems to think better of it. All for the better—he doesn’t need her _pity_.

Ash bursts into the room then, wide eyes finding Cas. “I just saw Meg,” he says, looking back and forth between Dean and Cas. “She told me everything.”

“Take Meg to see Sam, then. He needs to know the truth,” Dean says. “Anyone else can wait.”

“Okay,” Ash says, backing out of the room.

Dean moves behind his desk and takes a seat to wait. It only takes a few more minutes for Cas’s brothers to enter the room, and they freeze at the sight of her, standing beside Dean’s desk. The door falls shut behind Gabriel, and Dean waits for one of them to say something.

“Elle,” Michael finally says, taking a step toward her. “How—”

“I know everything,” she says. “And I told Dean.”

“You—” Lucifer starts, anger flashing in his eyes.

“Yes,” Cas says.

“Why would you do that?” Michael asks, the act falling away. “We were so close.”

“Because you were wrong,” Cas says, and damn it, is she seriously still trying to pretend that she didn’t have a part in this?

Dean should have known that she wouldn’t have been that smart for no reason, should have listened to Sam when he had the chance. She had to make sure Dean would fall for her, had to be quick-witted enough to discover what would catch and keep his interest. She played him for a fool the entire time, and he didn’t suspect her for one goddamn moment. Fuck, Cas was Bela Talbot all over again, only a hundred, a _thousand_ times more devious.

Michael sighs. “So, what now?” he asks, eyes on Dean. “We deceived you. Are you going to kill us?”

Dean shakes his head. “I’ve already assigned portions of my armies to you, and they cannot ride without leaders. It’s late now, and last-minute changes are unfavorable when it comes to fighting.” After a pause, he says, “I trust you don’t want me dead.”

“No,” Michael says. “We want our revenge.”

“Exactly—you’ll do well in battle with that motivation,” Dean says.

“So we _are_ still going to battle,” Gabriel says.

“Yes,” Dean confirms, and he suddenly feels so tired of it all. “But you did deceive me, and I can’t just forgive you. If we triumph, I will not allow one of you to take the crown.”

Lucifer frowns. “It’s rightfully ours.”

“Who else would you place on the throne? One of the current princes? Neither of them has the right,” Gabriel says. “Besides, our hand was forced. We—”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. “King Zachariah may have taken the crown from your father unlawfully, but if I win this war, then I have the right to give the crown to any man I choose. I could even take it myself or pass it on to Sam or Adam, if I so wanted.”

“But you—Sam said that you had to maintain the balance between the Three Kingdoms,” Gabriel says.

“I didn’t say that that was what I was going to do,” Dean points out. “I just wanted to emphasize that I’ll have the right to do what I want, if I win. And honestly, I don’t care who is on the throne, as long as it’s not one of you. You can’t manipulate people like that to get what you want—I won’t let you just get away with it.”

Gabriel opens his mouth to argue, but Michael holds up a hand, silencing him.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. “I don’t regret what we did because there was no other way, but I am sorry that it involved using you.” Notably, he doesn’t say that he used his sister—Cas must have been working with them. She probably only returned to Dean because she couldn’t live with her guilty conscience.

Dean clenches his jaw. “Go back to your chambers and rest. You’ll need your strength for the coming days,” he says.

Lucifer turns immediately and goes out the door. Gabriel lingers for a moment, looking at Dean with unhappy eyes, before turning away. Michael bows, and when he straightens, he’s looking at Cas instead of Dean. Do they have something else planned that Cas _hasn’t_ told Dean?

God, he’ll never be able to trust her again, will he?

Then the door is closing behind Michael, and Dean lets out a sigh. “You can go, too,” he says to Cas.

She turns toward him, but her eyes rest on his chin rather than his eyes. “Dean, I—”

“It’s a long ride back up from the border,” Dean says. “And even if you’re mostly healed, you should take better care of your body.”

“I’m worried,” Cas says. “They had everything planned out in such detail—I’m almost certain that they will have a backup plan in place for just this situation, in which you decide that you do not approve of their ascent to the throne.”

“Oh, and _you_ would know, wouldn’t you?” Dean says.

Cas doesn’t move, and her features hardly change, but he can see a pained look flash briefly in her eyes, there and gone. He wants to take the words back, but his jaw remains clamped shut, because damn it, _Cas_ was the one who betrayed _him_. He shouldn’t have to feel guilty for snapping at her.

“Dean—” she starts, trying again.

“I don’t want to hear it. I’ll be able to take care of myself just fine—I don’t need any of your so-called _help_. Just—just stay here. And get better.”

Cas is silent for a long moment. Then her eyes dart up to meet his, just for a second, and there’s something shuttered, closed-off, about her gaze, something he’s never seen before.

“Good night, Dean,” she says, voice steady and cold, sending chills up his spine. She exits the room before he’s had the time to find his voice, and he sighs.

“Fuck.”

* * *

As soon as Castiel walks out of Dean’s study, her eyes tear up, and the composure she fought so hard to maintain slips a little. She blinks the tears back—she can’t cry until she reaches the safety of her bedchamber.

Besides, Dean won’t be sleeping with her tonight, so she’ll be able to cry as much as she wants to.

But she turns into the corridor that leads to her chambers and finds her brothers there, waiting for her. She lets out a tired sigh—she can’t help but be furious with them, but they _are_ her brothers, and she _does_ love them, still.

“What do you want from me?” she asks. “Haven’t you done enough?”

“Elle, we had to do this,” Michael says. “You have to understand.”

“No, I don’t,” Castiel says, shaking her head.

“We had to,” Lucifer reiterates. “For Father. For all of us. You know what Zachariah did. You suffered at his hands, too. Raphael told us all about—”

“I don’t care about that anymore,” Castiel interrupts. “It’s all in the past. It doesn’t affect me anymore. But what you did, it—” she sighs, frustrated, and looks at the ground. “I don’t want to talk about it. I would appreciate it very much if you could just leave me in peace.”

“He thinks you were part of it all, doesn’t he?” Gabriel asks gently.

“That hardly matters to you now, does it?” Castiel responds bitterly. “You don’t need him to have an emotional connection to me anymore, now that you’ve gotten your war.”

“Castiel—” Michael starts.

“Please don’t. I just want to be left alone.”

“It’s better this way,” Lucifer says.

“Lucifer, you can’t say that,” Gabriel hisses, but Lucifer continues nevertheless—

“If he doesn’t want you anymore, then you can leave this place. You can come home with us and—”

Castiel bursts into laughter then, uncontrollable and verging on maniacal. “Home?” she repeats when she’s done laughing. “I’m sorry if this isn’t clear to you, but Tarcaelius has not been my home for some time now.”

“Only a few months,” Lucifer says.

“Physically, perhaps,” Castiel says. “But it hasn’t felt like home for years. Father disappeared, and then all of you left. It wasn’t the same, without you. Now I know that you… that you’d all had each other, to some extent. You _chose_ to leave me alone, to make me think—”

“Elle,” Michael tries to interrupt.

“—that you could be dead. And now… now, you say that you want me to go _home_ with you. This _is_ my home, now. _Dean_ is my home. And you’ve taken him from me.”

It’s silent in the corridor when she finishes speaking, and when she looks at Michael, he averts his gaze. Lucifer and Gabriel do the same, but it doesn’t give her any satisfaction to know that they feel guilty for hurting her, at the very least.

“I was on horseback for most of today, and I’d like to sleep now,” she says wearily.

“Yes,” Michael says before either of the other two can speak. “We should rest, too. Good night, Elle.”

Castiel only nods and waits for her brothers to move out of her way. It takes a moment, and then she passes by them and walks the rest of the way to her chambers.

She leans back against the door to her bedchamber as soon as she’s inside and looks around the room, making sure that no one is there. She’s relieved to find that the room is empty and slowly sinks to the ground, eyes welling up.

Less than two weeks ago, she and Dean had consummated their marriage, in this very room. He first brought her to climax against the wall to her right, not three feet from where she currently sits, curled up on herself. They lay together in bed that night, and he’d told her that their relationship reminded him of the one between his parents—that he couldn’t lose her.

What happened to them? How did so much change in so little time? They’ll never be the same—of that she’s certain.

Castiel hates crying, but now that she’s started, she can’t seem to stop. She hugs her shins and buries her face in her knees to stifle her sobs. The last thing she needs right now is for one of the servants to hear her and attempt to come inside and comfort her.

It’s over, she thinks, miserably. It’s all over.

* * *

Dean’s just started drifting off on his cot when there’re a series of quick raps on his door. Sighing, he sits up and asks who’s at the door.

“Sam and Adam,” Ash’s voice responds.

“Come on in, then,” Dean says.

The door opens, and Sam and Adam step in. Ash follows, shutting the door behind him.

“What are you doing still here?” Sam asks, frowning. “Castiel is back. You should be with her.”

Dean blinks. “What are you talking about? Didn’t Meg tell you what Cas did?”

“I told you he’d blame her,” Adam says to Sam.

“Dean,” Sam says with a sigh.

“So you think this isn’t her fault, I gather,” Dean says before Sam can continue. “She was the biggest, most vital part of their plan. If they’re smart enough to put together a scheme like that, then they wouldn’t be so stupid that they’d keep their plans from the most essential person.”

“I think don’t think that’s a stupid move,” Sam says. “I think it’s a brilliant one. She’d be authentic. Sincere. Any suspicions against her would come to nothing because there’d be no truth in any of it. Think about it, Dean. If they already had solutions in case you and Castiel didn’t develop emotions toward each other, what would be the point of forcing Castiel to act in front of you?”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think she would lie to you,” Adam adds.

“But she _has_ lied to me before, and it had to do with her brothers that time, too,” Dean says. “Hell, by now you both know she wasn’t just on some hunting trip.”

“But she lied to you to keep you in the capital,” Sam points out. “That wouldn’t have helped their cause, would it?”

“I don’t know. I just—I don’t want to think about it anymore,” Dean says, shaking his head.

It’s too much. He knows about smart people, _really_ smart ones, ones with ridiculously gifted minds for strategy—Sam is one, and Cas’s brothers certainly seem to be as well. Cas… Cas is that way, too. But Dean is not one of those people, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to understand.

He doesn’t _want_ to understand. Not if understanding means that he has to accept that this is his reality, that Cas was only acting logically, that in her eyes, what she did was _right_.

“ _Dean_ —” Sam starts.

“Forcing him to talk to her right now isn’t going to help,” Adam interrupts. Then he looks over at Dean and says, “I don’t feel like you’re going to be safe out there. It’ll be too easy for one of her brothers to get at you when you’re not looking.” Dean opens his mouth to protest, but Adam says, “I mean it, Dean. It’d be so easy to blame it on an enemy soldier. I don’t think you should be fighting on the front line.”

“I agree,” Sam says. “I assume you won’t let them take the throne. And while they need you right now, as soon as you win the war—or even just when you’re doing well, they’ll go to work getting rid of you.”

“I get it,” Dean says. “I’ve thought it through already, and I know what I’m doing. I won’t sit back and let my men do all the fighting for me.”

“Let me come with you, then,” Adam says. “I can keep an eye on you, watch your back.”

“No,” Dean says.

“Why not? I’m not useless with a sword.”

“I know you’re not—I know your abilities. I don’t want either of you to come with me because I need you to be safe.”

“Oh, so _you_ don’t need to be safe,” Sam says. “You’re the king, Dean.”

Dean chuckles. “I don’t need you to remind me, Sam.” After a pause, he says, “Look, both of you have valuable skills. Sam, you’ve always been excellent at handing political issues. Adam, you’ve got an aptitude for healing. You’re both useful here, intellectually. Me, I’m a regular grunt. Good for use on the battlefield and little else.”

“That’s horseshit, Dean, and you know it,” Adam says.

“I may be exaggerating a little, but my point still stands. You’re staying here— _promise_ me that.”

“Don’t you think it’d be better if I went with him?” Adam asks, appealing to Sam now.

“Dean won’t be there alone with Cas’s brothers. His knights will be with him, and I’m sure he’ll also be careful on the battlefield,” Sam reasons, shooting Dean a pointed look. “With any luck, the war will be over quickly. Didn’t Cas’s brothers say that they have one of the main Tarcaelian generals on their side?”

“Yes,” Dean says.

General Virgil has apparently been friends with Raphael for a long time. He’s in charge of a large part of the forces that defend the Tarcaelian capital, so he won’t be of any help to Dean until they get close enough, but Sam and Adam don’t need to know that much.

“All right, then,” Sam says. “We’ll let you rest.”

Sam turns toward the door, but Adam stays where he is and says, “Dean, I know you’re convinced that Cas was in on everything, but I’m telling you, you shouldn’t ride out without at least saying goodbye to her. If—if anything happens to you, can you even imagine how much you’ll regret not going to her?”

“I won’t regret it,” Dean says. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sam grabs Adam’s arm. “Let’s just go,” he says.

Adam allows Sam to pull him toward the door. “No, Dean,” Adam says, a little belatedly, and he has that subtly sad expression on his face, the one that he only gets when he’s thinking about Bela. “ _You’re_ the one who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Dean has nothing to say to that, so he just watches his brothers exit the room.

He thinks about Cas, remembers how there’d been one night, when Cas was still relatively new to the castle, when he’d almost taken her against her will. He’d come here, intending to spend the rest of the night here, unable to face her again. She’d showed up in her thin nightgown and, despite the cold, decided to use her coat to cover Dean.

The memory had always been a bit tainted with guilt, but he’d thought of it often as proof of her kindness, her unbelievably good heart. Now, though, he sees this in context of her scheme with her brothers, and it all makes sense. Of course she’d be uncommonly kind, inhumanly _good_. She had to be, to ensure that he’d give his heart to her.

He lies back down on the cot and closes his eyes.

Part of him wishes that Cas would come now, as she had that night. Part of him thinks that he’d go back to bed with her, if she asked. Part of him wants to forgive her, wants to be by her side despite everything she’s done.

Maybe this is what it’s like, love. Maybe this is why Adam still can’t let go of Bela, even though it’s been years since her plot was exposed.

Dean doesn’t want to go down that road. He doesn’t want to hurt whenever he thinks about Cas, doesn’t want to have to avoid his own bedchamber just to prevent himself from seeing her. He wants to be indifferent toward her. It’s the only way he can survive this, because he can’t possibly forgive her for using him like this, but damn it all, he can’t hate her either.

He opens his eyes and just stares blankly at the door, individual thoughts fading into a low hum at the back of his mind. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s _waiting for Cas_ until a few minutes have passed, and he immediately rolls onto his other side, angry with himself for his weakness.

Cas won’t be coming tonight, anyway.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New (not original, just new to this story) character this chapter! I really like him:)

Castiel wakes up to the faint sound of horns blaring in the distance.

It’s still dim outside the window when she looks in that direction, and she deduces that it’s dawn, that the sun is just beginning to rise.

The army must be heading out, she realizes—that’s what the horns mean. She thinks about going outside, about rushing to catch up, to say goodbye to Dean. But she abandons the notion almost as soon as it occurs to her—he won’t want to see her, and she wouldn’t know how to face him, anyway.

She flips over in bed to face the wall and tugs the covers up some more.

Last night, she’d cried herself to sleep on the floor and woken up hours later, stiff and achy. She’d crawled into bed then, not bothering to undress except to remove her boots. She doesn’t know how long she lay there, staring at the ceiling without seeing anything, before finally falling asleep, and now that she’s awake again, she wishes for unconsciousness.

At least in her dreams, she and Dean are still together. Still happy.

The music dies down, and Castiel takes it to mean that the army has marched out. Dean is really gone now, and she doesn’t know when she’ll see him again. Dean doesn’t want to see her, so he’s probably happy to be leaving, happy to be away from her. Maybe it’s a good thing that they’re not together right now. Maybe when he comes back, he’ll see that she did not know her part in all this.

Doubtful. If Dean believed her, he would have come to see her before he left.

Maybe Michael or Lucifer or Gabriel will talk to him on her behalf, after the conversation she had with them last night. Maybe they’ll convince him—

But no, any attempt on their part to talk to him about Castiel will not change his mind—if anything, it’ll make things worse. Dean already thinks Castiel capable of manipulating him. It stands to reason that he would assume her brothers were trying to clear her name because she asked them to do so.

There’s a knock on the door, then, and Meg calls from outside, “Elle, are you awake?”

“I don’t want to be disturbed,” Castiel responds.

“But—”

“Please just go.”

“Shall I bring you your breakfast later?”

“No,” Castiel says. “Leave. Please.”

After a pause, Meg says, “Okay, then. I’m sorry.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, and the room is silent again.

* * *

It is sometime late in the afternoon when Meg tries knocking on the door again.

Castiel hasn’t moved except to kick off the covers because it got hot. She doesn’t want to sleep or read or eat or talk—why doesn’t Meg understand that?

But to her surprise, a male voice speaks through the door. “Castiel, can I come in?”

She identifies the speaker as Adam. “I’m afraid I won’t make good company today,” she says. “Perhaps another time.”

“What if I insist?”

Sighing, Castiel says, “Enter, then, if you must.”

The door opens, and a single pair of footsteps enters the room. There’s a brief pause after the door closes, and then Adam asks, “Have you been there all day? You must be starving.”

“Not at all.”

“In any case, I brought you some freshly baked bread from the kitchens,” Adam says, and from the sound of his footfalls, Castiel can tell that he has just crossed the room to the desk. She hears the clack of a platter against the surface of the desk.

“That’s very kind of you. You could have sent a servant,” Castiel says.

“Ah, but you wouldn’t have let a servant in, would you?” Adam replies.

“True,” Castiel concedes. She sighs and rolls onto her back before sitting up. “I apologize for my rudeness.”

“No, no. Speaking to the wall was just as effective as speaking directly to me,” Adam says, dragging a chair over to Castiel’s bedside before taking a seat.

Castiel manages a small smile. “I appreciate your effort to lift my spirits, but I’m afraid it’ll go to waste.”

Adam smiles back. “At least you’re talking.” When Castiel doesn’t reply, he says, “If you wouldn’t mind sharing, I’d… I’d like to know what is on your mind.”

“Dean,” Castiel answers honestly. There’s nothing and no one else she can think about, really.

“Of course, but what about him?”

Castiel’s eyes drop to the bedspread. “Do you already know the truth of what happened to me?”

“Yes,” Adam says. “But I don’t blame you. Sam and I both believe that you weren’t part of it.”

Castiel lifts her gaze to meet Adam’s, searching for insincerity, but she finds none. “But—why?”

“I suppose we believe you for different reasons. Sam used logic, as he always does—he said that it would have been a smarter move for your brothers to keep you uninformed than to tell you all of their plans, because your actions and emotions would be authentic. As for me… I just didn’t think you were capable of such deception.”

How is it that both of his brothers arrived at the correct conclusion, yet Dean completely missed it?

“Thank you for having faith in me,” Castiel says. “I only wish Dean…” she stops and shakes her head.

“I’m sorry about that,” Adam says. “Sam and I spoke to him last night, but he was stubborn.”

“I appreciate the gesture, nevertheless.”

They fall silent for a while, and Castiel finds herself wondering whether or not Dean will be safe out there, surrounded by Michael and Lucifer and Gabriel. Sure, he has his four knights with him, but they won’t be with him at all times. What if her brothers really _do_ have an alternate plan just in case Dean chooses not to place one of them on the throne?

“What are you thinking about now?” Adam asks.

Castiel sighs. “I’m worried about Dean.”

“I am, too,” Adam says.

“I dislike that he’s riding out to war, that there’s nothing I can do about it,” Castiel says. “If only I had the power to turn back time. Knowing what I know now, I never would have listened to Gabriel.”

“But they had so many plans in place, didn’t they? I’m sure that if you’d refused to go to them, they would have come to you and carried out their scheme here,” Adam points out. “This was no fault of yours. Dean’s just… confused.”

Castiel shakes her head. “I wish it could be that simple. He doesn’t trust me anymore, Adam. I lied to him about Gabriel, about going to my brothers, so he believed that I lied to him about this, too.”

Adam is quiet for a moment, and Castiel just looks down at her hands, twisting and untwisting her fingers in her lap.

Then Adam asks, “Did you ever find out who Bela was?”

Castiel glances up in time to see a sorrowful look pass over his face. “No, I didn’t,” she answers.

“Bela was… beautiful,” Adam starts. “She came to the capital two years ago, pretending to be the daughter of Baron Lugosi. She and her supposed father were guests at the castle for a week, and over the course of their time at the castle, it became clear to us that Baron Lugosi wanted to marry her off to one of us. When he left, Bela asked to stay behind. We agreed—she was so charming that it was hard to refuse her anything.

“I knew that her sights were set on Dean from the beginning. Though she spoke to us all equally, her eyes lingered the longest on him. He seemed interested too, but only for the first two weeks or so. He stopped paying special attention to her, but I… I was infatuated with her. When she realized that she had my attention, she began to reciprocate.

“We hadn’t even been courting for a month when I proposed. Sam and Dean instantly disapproved, saying that it was too soon, and that I was too young to be considering marriage, anyway. I was all set on leaving the castle, my rank, my family, to be with her, but she kept insisting that I stay. At the time, I was so sure that it was because she didn’t want me to sacrifice so much for her, but now… well, now I know that she was hoping to one day become queen.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Castiel says, caught up in the story despite herself. “If she wanted to become queen, she would have had to marry Dean. Unless—oh, no.”

Adam clenches his jaw. “Yes,” he says. “Her maid was caught slipping poison into a goblet of wine that was meant for Dean. Had Dean passed the crown on to Sam, I’m certain Bela would have done the same to him so that I would ascend to the throne.”

“I’m so sorry,” Castiel murmurs.

“The maid, of course, was executed. Bela…” Adam takes a deep breath, as though to brace himself.

“You don’t have to continue, if this is too difficult for you,” Castiel offers.

Adam just shakes his head and says, “I couldn’t let her die. I… I knew how treacherous she was, knew that all of our time together had meant absolutely nothing to her, yet I just—I just couldn’t let Dean kill her. So he had her blinded and then exiled her from our kingdom.”

Castiel has nothing to say, knows that nothing she says could possibly erase the pain on her little brother’s face, so she just reaches out and rests her hand over his.

Adam laughs a little, reaching up with his other hand to wipe at his eyes. “I came in here to try to make you feel better, but I’ve made myself cry instead,” he says, a hint of wry amusement in his tone. “But I did have a point to make with this story.”

“Of course,” Castiel says.

“I still love her,” Adam says, meeting Castiel’s eyes steadily. “I discovered her true nature and managed to separate myself from her, but I can’t stop myself from feeling for the version of her in my memories, the version of her that I fell in love with.

“I just wanted to tell you that… that if I can feel so much for a woman even after discovering that she was truly wicked, then Dean certainly is capable of just as much. If he loves you as I loved Bela, then he still loves you, even if he’s said that he never wishes to see you again. Perhaps he believes you to be treacherous and evil, but he’d still be devastated if he truly never saw you again. So when he finds out that you’re good, that you never betrayed him, the two of you will be all right again.”

Castiel forces herself to smile. “Your optimism is… it’s very touching,” she says. “But the depth of your regard for Bela seems to have been extraordinary, and I don’t know whether Dean feels so strongly for me. In any case, he may never find out that I had no part in their plan. I have no way of proving my innocence to him or to anyone else.”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” Adam says. “Now, will you eat, please?”

Castiel nods. “Very well. I apologize for making you worry.”

Adam smiles. “I’m just pleased that you’re willing to eat,” he says. “Meg and Anna pestered me all morning, but I thought you needed some more time to yourself.”

“Thank you, Adam.”

“Don’t mention it.”

After sharing the bread—Adam’s stomach grumbled when Castiel was just starting to eat, and he’d reluctantly admitted that he hadn’t had much of an appetite either—Adam takes his leave, and Castiel finally gets out of bed.

She crosses the room to look at herself in the mirror by the vanity, and Michael was right—her hair _is_ a disaster. She can’t bring herself to care, though.

Castiel spends a long time trying to think of a way to prove herself innocent, but there really is nothing she can use. Her brothers’ schemes all relied on people saying or doing things at the correct times, and the word of servants, or of people whom Castiel can order around, will mean absolutely nothing to Dean.

Eventually, Castiel has to conclude that she cannot prove that she was uninvolved.

But she _can_ prove her devotion to Dean, she realizes. If he won’t believe that she treated him sincerely, won’t believe that her emotions toward him were and are real, then she’ll show him.

It’s late in the afternoon by the time she reaches this conclusion, and Dean’s army may have a full day’s head start by the time she actually leaves the castle, but she’ll be on horseback, and besides, when Dean reaches the border, his army will be slowed down by enemy defenses.

She’ll make sure Dean isn’t attacked by any of her brothers’ men by shadowing him as much as possible—without attracting anyone’s attention, of course. It wouldn’t do to give herself away and be sent right back to the capital. It isn’t a perfect solution, as she can’t exactly reveal herself to Dean from the beginning, but she’ll hopefully find a chance at some point toward the end of the fighting, when she’s proven that she can hold her own in battle and therefore doesn’t need to be sent back home.

Having made up her mind, Castiel packs a small sum of money and goes to join Sam and Adam for supper, because she’ll need to have energy if she is to catch up with Dean’s army and join their ranks. Sam is absent, but Adam is pleasantly surprised by Castiel’s presence.

After supper, she and Adam part ways.

The maids and servants of the castle haven’t quite gotten used to her new haircut, and they especially are not accustomed to seeing her walking around in tunic and breeches, which means she is capable of slipping into a storage room without attracting undue attention. She steals the armor and helm of a common foot soldier and returns to her chambers to retrieve her sword. She leaves a note for Inias and then makes her way down to the servants’ stables, selecting a horse at random and saddling up.

The horse whinnies in protest at the added weight in its saddlebags, but Castiel cannot change into the uniform yet—she doesn’t think she’d be able to explain away the continued presence of a foot soldier in the capital, left behind by the army.

So she kicks her heels against the horse’s sides and rides east.

* * *

Dean looks up at the moon and sighs. It’s a full moon tonight, and he wonders whether or not Cas is doing the same thing. Maybe she’s in their bedchamber right now, her eyes on the moon and her mind on Dean.

No—that was the old Cas, the Cas he’d trusted. The Cas who never could have lied to him.

But she’d never existed, had she? Not for real, anyway.

“Dean, the scouts are back,” Garth says.

“All right,” Dean says, turning around to go back into his tent. “Where are the other knights?”

“Coming,” Garth answers as they duck into Dean’s tent. “They were seeing to the prisoners that we took this afternoon.”

Dean and his army crossed into Tarcaelian territory earlier today and decimated a border patrol, but they did take a few prisoners. It makes sense that the knights would want to see to the prisoners as soon as they set up camp, to make sure no one has a chance to escape.

“It’s fine. You can update them later. Bring in the scouts,” Dean says.

Garth nods and goes outside, returning with two young men. If Dean remembers correctly, their names are Tommy and Lucas.

“Tell me what you know,” Dean says.

“There is an army up ahead, heading our way,” Lucas reports. “Their numbers are less than ours.  We could not determine who is leading the troops, but their flags were light blue, with one white star at the center of each one.”

Dean frowns. “That’ll be one of the lesser generals. This isn’t their main army. How far away are they?”

“Perhaps several hours’ march,” Lucas replies. “We’re fairly certain that they will be setting up camp very soon, if they haven’t already.”

After considering this for a moment, Dean says, “Thank you. You can rest now.”

Lucas and Tommy back out of the tent, and Garth turns to Dean. “We should double the patrol tonight, if they’re so close by.”

“Yes,” Dean agrees. “Send a messenger to the enemy encampment. Have him tell them… tell them that we’ll meet in the field tomorrow morning.”

“Why alert them to our presence?”

“They probably already know we’re here,” Dean says. “If our scouts found them, then their scouts could have found us. We might as well let them know that we know they’re there—it’ll discourage them from trying to attack us in the night.”

Garth nods. “Good plan. Is that all?”

“Yes,” Dean answers. “Let me know if the situation changes.”

“I will.”

Garth leaves, and Dean takes a seat on his bedroll, spread out on the ground. He finds himself rubbing the palm of his left hand with his right thumb, and when he looks down, he realizes that he’s subconsciously tracing the faint, pink line leftover from his wedding night.

Clenching his left hand into a fist, Dean twists to lie down.

“Dean?” Ash enters the tent without being summoned. “You didn’t eat much today, so I brought you some food.”

“I’m not hungry. You can have it—I know you didn’t eat much, either,” Dean says.

“Come on, Dean. It’d be a shame if we lost the war because you fainted of malnourishment mid-battle.”

Dean sighs and sits back up. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Ash smiles. “I know.”

* * *

It takes Castiel longer than she’d wanted to reach the Tarcaelian border. She’s still recovering from the stab wound, which has mostly healed over but still pains her on the road. It can’t have helped that she’s only had one night and one day of rest since her ride from her brothers’ compound back to the capital.

Fortunately, it’s easy to follow the trail left behind by such a large group of people, and she reaches the place where they crossed the border—bodies still litter the ground around her, easy to see on earth that’s been made barren by a long winter, and she wonders how long ago they passed through. If the army left no survivors, the Tarcaelians may not even know that their sentries died yet.

Castiel can’t help but feel bad at the sight of those men. They didn’t have to die; it isn’t their fault that their king is a traitor who didn’t hesitate to kill his own brother.

But this is a war, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it now.

She rides past them as quickly as possible, trying not to let her eyes linger on their bodies. The sun hasn’t risen yet, though, so it’s still dark, just dark enough that it’s not too difficult to ignore them. She’s certain a different patrol will find them soon and take the time to give them proper burials.

The border is perhaps thirty minutes behind Castiel when she hears the faint sounds of fighting—the clanging of steel against steel, the cries of soldiers in battle.

She dismounts and puts on her armor. It’s a struggle to do without any assistance, but she manages it well enough. After donning her helm, she gets back on her horse and rides the last bit of distance to reach the fighting—it seems to be a little over a mile away.

Castiel fights from atop her horse for as long as possible, making the most of her height advantage, but eventually someone manages to stab the horse’s left flank, injuring it. Castiel is nearly thrown from the saddle but manages to leap off, landing on her feet unsteadily. She swings her sword before she’s even regained her footing, forcing the nearest soldier to backpedal rapidly.

It’s more difficult to tell the difference between ally and enemy here, as the armor on one side is similar to that used by the other. The color and designs of the crests on their breastplates, blue for Tarcaelius and red for Laurentia, are the most distinguishing feature between soldiers of the two sides. They were far easier to see on horseback, but on the ground, she is shorter than most of her opponents.

Castiel blocks one strike and retaliates with one of her own. The only advantage she can conceive, she thinks as she advances on her opponent, is that soldiers are far less likely to attack anyone from behind, for fear of harming one of their own.

As she forces her opponent farther back with a well-aimed kick, a man just to her left falls onto his back—red emblem, Laurentian. So Castiel lunges to the side and parries the enemy’s kill strike, poking at him with her sword to buy herself enough time to extend her free hand and help the fallen soldier back to his feet. His hand is hot, even through two layers of gloves, large enough to eclipse hers entirely.

Back on two feet, he fights alongside her, timing each of his attacks slightly after each of hers, and the rhythm that they develop makes it feel as though they are a single unit. More than once, Castiel twists to block a blow from behind, fighting back-to-back with her unexpected partner.

Throughout the fight, she keeps an eye out for Dean, or one of the knights, one of her brothers, but she sees none of them—their faces are hidden by their helms, but Castiel has been led to believe that men of powerful clans wear capes and that their helms have markings on them. Her information is at least half-right; her current partner has a crest consisting of the outline of a bat emblazoned on the side of his helm, and it takes her a moment to remember which clan the crest is from: Lugosi.

But she doesn’t have much attention to spare on these sorts of details, far more intent on staying alive to the end of the battle.

She runs a man through with her sword and yanks it back out rapidly, turning her attention to the next opponent before the body has even hit the ground. She doesn’t know how many people she has wounded, how many she has killed, and it scares her. It was easy to make up her mind to come here and fight, easy to tell herself that she wasn’t afraid when she was in the safety of the castle.

Now, she slashes another man’s throat, flinches as the arterial spray comes in her direction, and can’t help but think that the next dead body could be hers.

“Hey, watch out!” a gruff voice calls out.

But there’s a heavy blow to the back of her head, and she falls.

* * *

The enemy general calls out to retreat, and the Tarcaelians begin falling back.

Victor fights his way over to Dean’s side and shouts, “Do we give chase?”

Dean blocks a blow and makes a quick forward jab that only _just_ misses his opponent’s neck. “Only for a while!” he responds—there are still too many Tarcaelian soldiers in this unit for them to capture the remaining men alive, and as long as they’re running away, Dean may as well gain some ground before letting his men rest.

So they charge forward, chasing the Tarcaelians off the battlefield and toward their encampment. Some enemy soldiers gather what supplies they can as they run, but most of them don’t bother. It makes sense for them not to place too much emphasis on these supplies, as this battle is being fought on Tarcaelian soil, and they should be able to get supplies from any city nearby.

The pursuit goes on for over an hour, and then they encounter a hill. When they reach the top, driving the Tarcaelians down the other side, Dean signals for his forces to stop—this is an advantageous position to set up camp for the day. The enemy forces will take today to lick their wounds and hope for reinforcements, but Dean’s army will have to face the majority of the Tarcaelian forces at some point, anyway. May as well kill as many of them away from the protection of their capital walls as possible.

Dean sends a squad of men with Caleb to go back to the old campsite and clean up. A second group under Gordon’s command goes to take what they can use from the abandoned Tarcaelian camp, and a final, smaller group of men, led by Garth, is tasked with taking down the names of the deceased and burning their bodies.

When he’s finished giving orders, Dean walks among his men and has all the wounded brought together to one place. Elkins’s apprentice, a young man of nineteen named Pike, is already tending to some of their wounds, sending men to gather herbs for him while he waits for his supplies to be fetched.

“Pike!” Dean says. “Everything all right?”

Pike’s head jerks up at the sound of Dean’s voice, and he nods before turning back to his work. “Yes, sire. You have no cause for worry.”

“Good.”

Victor approaches as Dean walks away from the wounded soldiers and falls into step beside him. “Lucas says that the Tarcaelians have set up camp about three miles from here. They seem frantic, but he can’t be sure whether or not it’s authentic or a ploy to make us overconfident.”

“Hmm. We should speak with our consultants, then,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Victor agrees. He grabs Dean’s elbow and pulls him to the left. “Come—I saw Michael back this way a few minutes before the scouts found me.”

Ah, Michael. Of the three brothers, Dean is the most conflicted about him. Lucifer is generally unfriendly and unpleasant to have around, though according to Cas, he’d once been gracious and kind. Gabriel speaks his mind and is far more serious than he’d been when he was Richard, and Dean can’t help but feel betrayed by him whenever he sees him.

Michael appears to be the most reasonable and levelheaded of the three, which should make him the easiest for Dean to talk to. Yet his eyes happen to be just as blue, just as unfathomably deep, as Cas’s, and it’s difficult for Dean to even look at him without thinking of her.

And then he’s right in front of Dean, helm off and speaking to a soldier whom Dean doesn’t recognize.

“Michael,” Victor says. “We’d like you to answer a few questions.”

“Of course,” Michael says. The man he was talking to excuses himself and leaves, and Michael turns his full attention on Dean. “How can I help?”

“Our scouts found the Tarcaelian encampment three miles from here,” Dean says. “They appear to be worried. What do you make of it?”

Michael considers this for a moment before responding, “I don’t know what you would like me to say. Each general has a different strategy. It is possible that he is truly worried that he won’t receive reinforcements in time, but it’s just as likely that he wants us to become arrogant, complacent. Either way, all we need to do is attack them again tomorrow, with full force.”

“Makes sense,” Dean says. “Thank you.”

“Not at all,” Michael replies. Dean turns to leave but stops at the sound of Michael’s voice—“I’d long heard of the strength and ferocity of Laurentian warriors. I had worried that it was all rumor, but I saw today and yesterday that what I’d heard was firmly rooted in truth. I’m glad for that.”

After a pause, Dean answers, “So am I.”

Michael just smiles, so Dean turns and walks away.

* * *

Castiel wakes with a throbbing ache in her head. She opens her eyes and instantly feels disoriented, as though the ceiling above her is tilted.

She blinks a few times and looks again, but—no, the ceiling still appears tilted.

Then she turns her head to the side and realizes that the ceiling _is_ tilted because it isn’t a ceiling at all; she’s inside a tent. Turning her head to the other side, she sees someone with his back turned to her, but he is the only other person here.

A tent for a single man, then? He must be a member of the nobility, in order to receive such a privilege.

And then Castiel catches sight of the helm that’s resting just within the man’s reach, recognizes the bat on the family crest. This is a man of Lugosi, the man who fought beside her today. He’s dressed simply, the armor having apparently been discarded, and she takes a moment to observe him.

He appears to be moving his right arm, just in small motions, the other one drawn in front of him. His shoulders are broad, broader than Dean’s, and she remembers how big his hand had felt around hers.

She turns her head back to face the roof of the tent before realizing that her pilfered armor is no longer weighing her down. She quickly lifts a hand to her chest and shivers with relief when she feels that her tunic is still in place underneath the thin blanket.

“You’re awake.”

Lugosi’s voice is scratchier than she remembers, but she’d been distracted by the fighting at the time, so her memory may be faulty. “I—thank you,” she says.

“You saved my life. It was only fair that I haul your ass out of there,” he replies, shrugging.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Castiel says—the fact that she is still wearing her tunic and breeches implies that Lugosi must have stopped undressing her when he discovered that she was not a man. Though from his words, it appears she owes him thanks for carrying her from the battlefield as well.

Lugosi smiles grimly. “I’d just like to know why.”

“It isn’t important.”

“It must be, if a lady like you is on the battlefield. And before you ask, I can tell the difference between a lady and a commoner.”

Castiel smiles. “Very well, then, Lugosi. I—”

“My surname is not Lugosi,” he interrupts. “I may bear my mother’s family crest, but my father’s name was Lafitte. I’d prefer Benny, though, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Benny, then,” Castiel says. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’d say the same, but I don’t even know your name, yet.”

Castiel blanks for a moment, because she certainly cannot say that she’s a _Winchester_. “Collins,” she replies, using the first name that comes to mind.

“Collins,” Benny repeats. “You won’t tell me your given name?”

“Just Collins will suffice.”

Benny seems content, at least for the time being, and says, “Are you all right? You took a pretty hard blow to the head. I imagine your helm protected you well, but—”

“I am fine,” Castiel interrupts. “I’ve certainly had far worse.”

“I like your attitude,” Benny says with a smile. “And you have a mean way with a sword, lady.” Castiel acknowledges the compliment with a nod, and Benny says, “If you’d like, I could help you.”

“How?”

“Your disguise is very good. You’d easily pass as a man with that hairstyle—though it could use some evening out—and the way you handle your sword is masterful. But your features are still quite pretty, and it’d be safer for you, especially around so many men, if you were able to hide your appearance. But you can’t just walk around with a handkerchief tied round your face without reason.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I can tell the others that you are my mute, disfigured servant that I brought to fight by my side,” Benny says. “You’ll have a reason to hide your face, _and_ you won’t have to speak—that’s one less area for you to worry about.”

Frowning, Castiel says, “But won’t people be suspicious if you suddenly have a servant who wasn’t with you before?”

Benny laughs. “If they knew anything about me, then I’m certain they would be. But it just so happens that I don’t have many friends among the soldiers,” he says.

“Why ever not? You seem amiable enough.”

“Nobles don’t often send their sons out to battle. I am here because I am Baron Lugosi’s nephew. He is attempting to win favor by contributing to the war effort—specifically, by sending me to battle,” Benny explains. “So there are not many people of my rank here, and the common soldiers hold grudges against me because of my social standing. You need not worry about them calling attention to you.”

“This almost seems too good to be true,” Castiel comments.

Benny laughs again, and his mirth seems contagious, because Castiel cannot hold back a smile. “Usually, I’d say that if something seems too good to be true, then it probably isn’t. But it just so happens that this time, it is,” he says.

“Then I thank you,” Castiel says.

Grinning, Benny says, “I’m doing it for my own skin as much as yours. We make a hell of a team.”

“So it seems.”

Benny’s amusement gradually fades, and then he says, “Will you tell me why you’re here? Is it for a brother, or perhaps your father?” Castiel closes her eyes, but Benny continues, “Is your husband on the battlefield? Is that why you’ve come?”

“It’s a long story,” Castiel says.

“We have time. It’s unlikely that we’ll be moving again before tomorrow morning.”

“I apologize, but the details are… private. I’d rather not share them with a stranger, even if we did save each other’s lives,” Castiel says. She opens her eyes and looks at Benny in time to catch him nod.

“Fair enough.”


	22. Chapter 22

Dean gets separated from his group of four knights. He doesn’t notice when it happens, but by the time he realizes, they’ve already drifted apart, and he doesn’t bother trying to get back to them. It’ll take too much effort that would be better spent staying alive.

They’re finally making their move on the capital, and though the troops are in good spirits—the campaign to reach the capital had gone well, after all—Michael, Lucifer, and Gabriel all agreed that the defenses around the capital city would be difficult to penetrate. Regardless, Dean has confidence that it won’t take too long to break through.

As he fights, he takes stock of the allies around him. There’s a sparrow—one of Cas’s brothers—several yards to his right, a little ahead of him. Directly to his left are two fighters, one with an unmarked helm and the other with the Lugosi crest.

He doesn’t dare extend his attention farther, returning his focus to the fight at hand. He slays one soldier, but another immediately steps up to take his place, preventing Dean from advancing.

Cas’s brother stumbles backward then, off balance, and Dean leaps forward to steady him. Dean’s new opponent takes the opportunity to land a strike across Dean’s chest, but it’s from a bad angle and merely glances off his armor. The sparrow helm turns, and Dean catches sight of Cas’s eyes— _Michael_ —before they disengage, separating to resume their respective fights.

Victor is suddenly by his side, identifiable by the bull on his helm. “All right?” Victor barks over the noise.

Dean dodges one blow and shoves his sword hilt-deep into his opponent. “Fine!” he responds.

As he draws his sword and readies himself to continue fighting, he hears the Tarcaelian signal for retreat. “On their heels!” he bellows, racing forward as the cry is transferred through the ranks.

The city walls loom nearer, and it becomes obvious that the Tarcaelians had thought they could keep the Laurentian army away from their front door—the entry is still wide open, though the portcullis is being lowered. Dean calls for his forces to charge onward, to chase the enemy right through their front door, but as soon as his men are in range, arrows rain down on them, and right, of _course_ there’d be archers on the top of the wall. Stupid mistake.

“Back!” Dean shouts, because the Tarcaelians have the advantage for now, and he doesn’t want to lose more men than necessary only to fail at storming through.

He gets his men out of firing range and gives Victor and Michael the orders to spread their forces out, set up camp surrounding the city so that no one can get out.

“Are you certain we have enough men to accomplish that, sire?” Michael asks.

It’s true that their forces have dwindled since they crossed into enemy territory, but Dean’s reasonably sure that they have enough left to form a perimeter. Nevertheless, he accompanies Victor on a ride around the city walls just in case, and it seems doable.

They keep the largest number of people at the main entrance and spread the rest out evenly.

Then Dean summons his knights and Cas’s brothers to his tent to discuss which approach they should take in order to storm the city.

* * *

They don’t actually make a move on the capital until a full week later, simply to test how well the city holds up against a siege; according to Michael and Lucifer, there were always supposed to be great grain stores in the capital for the event of a siege, but they do not know if Zachariah would have kept to it after all these years, or if those grain stores would be enough to feed an army as well as the citizens.

Their tactic in order to reach the front gate is to use large shields as cover against arrows while having their own archers shoot down the Tarcaelian ones. It is a difficult strategy to execute, as the Tarcaelian archers have the advantage of gravity and a far better line of sight, but it is the only strategy that Dean and his men could agree on.

Dean himself is not the best with a bow and arrow, but his men prove their skill, and from behind a shield, Dean watches as one enemy archer after another falls from the wall.

He’s stepping out to shout encouragement to the men when an arrow hits the foot of the shield-bearer beside him. The shield swings out as the man falls, and Dean gets knocked onto his back, right into the path of an errant arrow.

He manages to knock it off course with his sword, but a second one pierces his abdomen, somewhere below his navel, and white-hot pain lances through him.

The nearest archer is the first to reach him, bracing himself over Dean’s body so that any arrows coming their way will hit him instead of Dean. Another soldier—Lugosi—takes up the fallen shield and raises it, stepping over to them just as a barrage of arrows rains down, clattering uselessly against the metal.

“Physician!” Lugosi roars.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses belatedly, barely loud enough for himself to hear, because god _damn_ , does it hurt.

“Dean!”

It’s Victor’s voice, but several others echo his name, their voices mixing together, and then Dean’s being dragged to his feet, still clutching his sword until someone snatches it from him, probably to keep him from hurting himself. He hears Caleb calling for the retreat, hears Tarcaelian cheers, and he shoves at the arms that are holding him up to no avail, because he _can_ walk, damn it.

* * *

The assault on the capital does not feel as impressive as it probably should, Castiel thinks as she nocks another arrow and tilts her head back to aim. But this approach makes sense; it’d be too difficult to try to ram the city gates open with arrows raining down on them, after all.

Benny squats close behind her, ready to refill her quiver whenever it’s close to empty. Soldiers standing about level with the row of archers hold up large, body-length shields to protect against the arrows raining down from above, and Castiel and her fellow archers have to shoot upward. One knee in the dirt, Castiel waits until her target has stopped moving before letting loose her arrow.

His body drops from the wall, but another immediately steps up to replace him.

“All right, there, Collins?” Benny asks, surprisingly close to her ear.

Castiel nods once, drawing another arrow and nocking it. She understands that Benny doesn’t like this—he feels useless here, unable to do anything against the enemy directly.

Since they met, they’ve refined the strange sort of rhythm that they get whenever they fight together, well enough that she can anticipate his each and every move and plan her own moves accordingly. Given the seamless way that he collaborates, he can do the same for her. But here, Benny cannot help her the way he does when they’re side by side on the battlefield.

An arrow hits the ground inches from Castiel’s knee, and she jerks backward instinctively, startled. Benny’s hand is instantly there, firm and steadying against the small of her back.

“Skittish, all of a sudden?” he says, amused.

“Never,” Castiel responds, leaning forward to shift her weight back to her knee.

Dean has been moving through the ranks regularly, and he is currently not three feet from Castiel, identifiable by the huge lion emblazoned on his helm. Holding back a sigh, Castiel wishes that they could have come to this point without all the lies and schemes that tore her away from Dean. How much better would it be if Dean knew she was here, now, fighting by his side?

She lets fly another arrow and watches another target fall from the wall.

Castiel sees an enemy arrow coming for the shield bearer nearest her and starts to shout out a warning, but it’s too late—the man is already falling, and Dean—Dean is swept off his feet by the large shield as the shield bearer falls, and Castiel scrambles backwards, narrowly avoiding being crushed by him. She immediately turns her attention to Dean, and—

_No._

There’s an arrow in his belly, and it seems as though every sound fades out behind the sudden pounding in her ears.

She’s moving before she even knows it, straddling his hips and leaning forward to provide cover, careful to avoid touching the shaft of the arrow—it wouldn’t do to push it farther into him.

Distantly, she hears someone calling Dean’s name, hears another shouting for a physician, and all Castiel wants to do is _erase_ the arrow that is sticking out of Dean’s stomach. He won’t die—he can’t die.

God, what if he dies still thinking that she betrayed him?

Strong hands grab at her shoulders then, and Castiel lets herself be pulled slightly away from Dean. She doesn’t go far, though, shifting to one side and sliding under one of his arms to lift his weight. Another soldier holds up the rest of his weight, and together, they start rushing Dean back toward the camp. Dean’s sword jolts up and down with each step, and Castiel takes it from him, shoving it into the hands of the nearest soldier.

They manage to make it back to the hills, back to their camp, and Castiel’s mind has cleared up some, lucidity driving out the panic. She survived being run through with a sword—surely Dean won’t die of one small arrow to the gut. Surely.

They’re in front of Dean’s tent when someone roughly grabs Castiel’s shoulder and forcefully yanks her back, throwing her to the ground.

“Hey!” a man— _Benny_ —growls, defensive.

“On your knees!” the man who threw her down demands of Benny, and Castiel recognizes his voice as that of Gordon. Now that she’s more clear-headed, the other person who’d been supporting Dean’s weight has a bull on his helm, so he must be Victor. “I could have you arrested for disobeying,” Gordon threatens in the meanwhile.

“Now, see here—” Benny starts, but Castiel just reaches out and taps his calf with a gloved hand, getting up onto her own knees. Benny begrudgingly drops to one knee.

But when Castiel looks back in Dean’s direction, she’s startled to see that he has turned around to face them, the arrow still protruding from his stomach—it seems the arrow just happened to pierce a spot that Dean’s armor left unprotected when he was on his back, arms raised.

“Gordon, stop,” Dean says before the knight can say anything else.

What is he doing, what is he doing, _what is he doing?_ He needs a physician!

Clearly, Victor is thinking along the same lines, because he tries to turn Dean back toward the tent, only to get an elbow to the breastplate for his troubles. Dean shoves at Victor, pushing him back and standing on his own.

Castiel is conflicted—is now an appropriate time to reveal herself? She wishes to attend to Dean personally, but there could be consequences for further deception—Dean’s angry with her, and his anger will not have diminished while he is injured like this. If anything, Castiel knows that pain is likely to increase anger.

Dean tugs his helm off with his right hand and indicates that she and Benny should do the same. Victor, standing half-behind Dean, has his arms still half-extended, as though he expects Dean to collapse any minute. Castiel doesn’t move, but she does see Benny lift his visor.

“Lugosi,” Dean says. “He wouldn’t have sent his own son here—I assume you’re the baron’s nephew.”

“Yes. You need medical attention,” Benny says gruffly.

“Is that any way to address the king?” Gordon snaps, but Dean waves a hand, silencing him.

“Your man there. Who is he?” Dean asks, eyes on Castiel.

“He’s my servant. Mute and uh, and disfigured. He’d prefer not to show his face,” Benny says, and bless him for not even thinking twice before _lying to the king_. Castiel is unsure how to feel about his loyalty.

“Disfigured how?” Dean says, swaying a little.

Victor immediately steps in to support his weight, only to be shoved out of the way again.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, you’re going to die of blood loss if you don’t get that looked at,” Castiel says, surging to her feet and removing her helm.

“What the hell do you think you’re _doing?_ ” she thinks she hears Benny hissing from her left, but Castiel doesn’t care about his concerns, hardly even notices the way Victor and Gordon have simply frozen in place as she crosses over to Dean and practically hauls him into his tent. The knights trail close behind.

Dean’s staring at Castiel like she’s an apparition. “Cas,” he finally says, even as she gets to work removing his gauntlet and vambrace. Victor does the same on the other side.

“Dean,” she replies shortly.

“What are you doing here, Highness?” Gordon asks tightly, supporting Dean from behind.

“Right now, I am attending to my husband,” Castiel answers without looking at him.

There’s a choking sound, and Castiel glances over her shoulder to see that Benny is in the tent as well, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re—you’re the _queen_ ,” he says.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, deftly removing Dean’s left pauldron and waiting for Victor to follow suit with the right before tugging the breastplate up and out of the way.

Then a thin, young man enters the tent, and Castiel recognizes him as Matthew Pike, apprentice to the royal physician. He pales when he sees Dean but doesn’t have any other outward reaction. Castiel and Victor immediately go to work removing the plates of armor around Dean’s legs.

“Castiel,” Garth says, startled. Castiel hadn’t even noticed that he’d followed Pike into the tent.

They lower Dean to his bedroll, and Pike instantly takes a knee, gently feeling his way around the arrow embedded in Dean’s stomach. A large hand loops around Castiel’s left elbow to pull her away, and she looks up into Gordon’s angry face—he’s discarded his helm as well.

But before she’s too far away, another hand—Dean’s hand—wraps around her right wrist and holds on tight. Gordon’s expression becomes even more furious, but he releases her, and Castiel turns back to face Dean, resting one hand on his shoulder.

“Lugosi, outside,” Gordon says.

“He can stay,” Cas says.

“You don’t have the right to make that call,” Gordon replies.

“She is still our queen, last I checked,” Victor says. “Come. We need to see to the other soldiers. The physician can take it from here.”

Castiel smiles at him, a silent thank you, and he only nods before exiting the tent. Gordon and Garth follow a moment later, leaving Castiel, Benny, and Pike with Dean.

“Where’s Ash?” Castiel asks, looking down at Dean. “Isn’t—wasn’t he supposed to be at your side, at all times?”

Dean starts to answer, but Pike has just snapped the arrow, and Dean shudders in pain instead, grip tightening around Castiel’s hand. She pulls his hand up and leans down to kiss his knuckles.

“We need to cut away his tunic. It’s in the way,” Pike says.

Benny produces a large hunting knife, one Castiel knows he keeps in his boot, and moves to Dean’s other side, lifting up the cloth before making a few cuts and pulling away a piece.

“What are you doing here?” Dean gets out, eyes on Castiel.

“Dean, I need to remove this arrow,” Pike says.

“We’ll talk later,” she answers, nodding at Pike to give him permission to proceed.

“But—” Dean starts. The arrow comes out with a disgustingly wet smacking sound, and his words break off into a pained groan as Pike pours wine over his stomach to disinfect the wound.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Castiel says. “Frankly, I’m amazed you’re still alive after all the battles you’ve fought. You can’t just put off medical attention because you _want_ to.”

Beside her, Pike is chuckling as he threads a needle, and Dean sends a baleful look in their direction.

“You don’t have the right to look at me like that—you know it’s true,” Castiel says sternly—she isn’t sure how else to help Dean right now, so she’ll just try to provide a distraction from the pain.

Dean shakes his head slightly and says, “What are you—how did you get here?”

“I caught up to the army on horseback,” Castiel replies.

“But—” Dean hisses as the needle pierces his flesh.

“This can wait until Pike has finished,” Castiel says quickly, but Dean shakes his head.

“I’d rather talk about it now, if you wouldn’t mind.”

His brow is slightly pinched, the only visual indicator that he’s in pain, and Castiel sighs. If she intends to distract Dean, she may as well tell him what he wants to hear.

* * *

Cas is quiet for what feels like an eternity, and Dean tries his best not to flinch at the slow drag of thread through his flesh. It was only an arrow, but he’s certain being on his feet for so long afterward opened the wound more than it would have had he received treatment immediately after being struck. Still, he estimates that he’ll need three or four stitches, at most.

It shouldn’t take too long. Hopefully.

“Cas?” Dean says, unhappy with the way his voice shakes slightly. He hates showing weakness, and damn it, Baron Lugosi’s nephew is still in the tent. Dean can’t remember his given name, but it’s all right because he’s never met the man face-to-face before.

“Where would you like me to start?” Cas asks.

“From the beginning,” Dean decides. “When did you catch up to us?”

“Shortly after you crossed the border, I believe,” Cas answers. “I rode past what was left of a border patrol and found the army soon after, in the middle of a battle.”

“So you decided you would just—” Dean winces as Pike’s needle pierces his flesh again, and god, the concern on Cas’s face _can’t_ be fake, can it? But she fooled him for so long. She’s squinting a little, lips pursed, head tilted, and he notices, incongruously, that her hair is neater than it was the last time he saw her. Has she had it fixed? No, that’s irrelevant. He finishes his thought, “—just join in?”

Cas nods. “I’d already decided to join your army, disguised as a foot soldier.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

Cas licks her lips and fixes her eyes on his. “You must know why.”

Dean clenches his jaw. “Putting yourself in danger like this—being _this_ reckless—isn’t a smart way of getting back into my good graces,” he says.

“I didn’t say that it was smart,” Cas points out. “And while getting back on better terms with you is something I would like very much, my main motivation for coming here was to prove my loyalty. Dean, I promise I had nothing to do with—”

“Don’t,” Dean says, closing his eyes.

He’s tired of thinking about all this. Really, really tired. And if Cas was able to do so many things—marry into a family she didn’t care about, injure herself just to increase Dean’s attachment to her, and then fake her own death, it’d be nothing to slip into a suit of armor and ride into battle.

“Dean, I—”

“Just don’t,” Dean insists, shaking his head. “Look, you shouldn’t have come here. You don’t belong on the battlefield.”

“Actually,” a deep voice says, reminding Dean that Lugosi is still here, “the queen is very skilled on the battlefield. She saved my life, more than once.”

“I take it the two of you fought side by side often,” Dean says.

“Every battle,” Lugosi responds.

A scene resurfaces in Dean’s mind, a memory of two men fighting near him, one large and one small. The bigger man had been Lugosi, hadn’t he? So the smaller must have been Cas. “Did you know her true identity?”

“Dean—” Cas starts.

“I did not. I only knew that she was a woman. She did not share her motivations with me, and I am glad that she didn’t,” Lugosi says evenly. “I don’t think I would have been able to handle the pressure of having that knowledge at my disposal if she had.”

“I see,” Dean says stiffly.

“I think Benny has been here long enough,” Cas says, and it takes Dean a moment to realize that she’s talking about Lugosi. Right—of _course_ she’d be on a first-name basis with him.

Dean doesn’t want to care anymore, doesn’t want to feel anything when it comes to Cas, but he can’t help the surge of jealousy he feels at this answer. She and Lugosi were partners in battle for what, two weeks? It only took one week of battle to reach the capital, and the siege has lasted about another week. Cas and Lugosi have apparently seen each other through every fight, and that—that takes _trust_.

So Cas trusts this man and doesn’t give a damn about Dean, is that it? But she couldn’t put her trust in Dean, of course, because she had to manipulate him to suit her needs. Fucking hell.

“Dean,” Cas says, shaking his shoulder lightly, and the overly concerned look in her eyes tells Dean that she’s probably called his name a few times already.

“Yes.”

“I’m finished,” Pike says. “You probably shouldn’t stand up—or even sit up—for the next few hours, just to ensure that all the bleeding has stopped.”

“When will I be better? A week?”

“Perhaps,” Pike answers. “You can start walking around tomorrow, but I advise against returning to the battlefield anytime within the next few days.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Go check on the other soldiers. I’m fine here.”

Pike backs out of the tent, and Dean is surprised to see that he is alone with Cas—he hadn’t even noticed Lugosi’s exit.

“Where is Ash?” Cas asks.

“He broke his leg, so I’ve had him resting for the past week or so,” Dean replies.

“I see,” Cas says.

They fall silent, and it feels ridiculously awkward. Dean closes his eyes to hide, because he hates this, hates that he can’t just talk to her the way he used to. They’ve fallen apart, shattered, and Dean can’t stand it.

“Did you share Lugosi’s tent while you were here?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Cas answers. “His surname is actually Lafitte—he is the son of Baron Lugosi’s sister.”

“Mm,” Dean grunts. Before he has time to think better of it, he adds, “I imagine you grew pretty close, spending so much time with each other.”

“Understandably, I learned more about him than he did about me,” Cas says.

“Understandably,” Dean repeats.

There’s another pause, this one just as tense as the last, and Dean takes the time to look her over again. She seems unharmed, stance relaxed, though it’s hard to tell through all the armor. His eyes sweep upward, and sure enough, her hair is neater—in the sense that it all seems to be close to the same length, shorter than it was before. It still stands on end messily. Dean wonders if Benny was the one who cut her hair. She’d have no trouble trusting him to wield shears so close to her, after all.

Trying to push back the sudden envy in his chest, Dean asks, “Why are you here?”

Cas frowns. “I thought I already told you that I wished to regain your trust—to prove my loyalty.”

“By putting yourself in danger? Did you think I would feel sorry for you?”

“No,” Cas says. “I also wanted to ensure that my brothers did not make a foolish attempt on your life in a bid for the Tarcaelian crown. I considered arriving and making myself known to you, but you would have sent me back immediately, I’m sure.”

“How do you know I won’t send you back now?”

“I’ve proven myself useful on the battlefield, haven’t I? I’ll be able to—”

“But I’m proof that it doesn’t matter how good you are with a sword. You can’t win against chance,” Dean says. “I don’t want you out here.”

“Why not, hmm?” Cas challenges. “Are you actually _worried_ about me? Because I could have sworn—”

“What? That I would be able to cut off my—my _feelings_ for you just as easily as you’ve freed yourself of any sentiment toward me? Oh, right, I forgot. You never felt anything for me in the first place. Nothing _real_ , at least.”

“How _dare_ you question my feelings for you!” Cas explodes. “I’ve killed for you, and I would _die_ for you, without hesitation. I almost did, in fact. _I love you_ , Dean, and I don’t understand why you can’t _see_ that.”

Her eyes go wide as soon as she finishes speaking, as though she hadn’t intended to say so much, and Dean feels like he’s going to have a headache trying to decide whether or not she’s being sincere—whether or not she’s just acting, again. Of course she would have died for him. If he’d died, all of their preparation would have been for nothing, and they would have had to start over with a new king.

But god, he wants to believe her so much, wants to turn back time and go back to where they were just a month ago, happily married without any hint of deception and lies. Ignorance is bliss, and he’d give anything to return to that state if he could just have his Cas again—the Cas that was fabricated for him.

Steeling himself, he says, “I said that I never wanted to see you again.”

“After the war is over,” Cas reminds him without missing a beat, but her gaze drops away from his face, and Dean should _not_ be feeling the ache that he does in his chest.

“Just go. Talk to one of my knights—they’ll fetch you a spare bedroll. You’ll stay here.”

“I don’t need a different bedroll—I have one already. I’ll get it myself,” Cas says, getting to her feet.

She bows before turning to leave the room. It’s a simple gesture, and with anyone else, Dean wouldn’t think much of it, as he _is_ the king. But with Cas… she hasn’t been so formal with him in so long that seeing her bowing to him is—is jarring, speaks to how far apart they’ve drifted.

Fuck, this sort of stuff shouldn’t be bothering him at all, anyway. _He_ is the one who doesn’t want to see _her_ , not the other way around.

“What the hell am I doing?” Dean whispers to the empty tent.

* * *

When Castiel enters Benny’s tent, he immediately gets to his feet, head bowed. The sight causes an unfamiliar discomfort in her chest. Sure, she feels some lingering hurt from Dean’s positively arctic dismissal, but the sudden distance that Benny has placed between them stings, and that’s—that’s new.

“Benny,” she says. “I just came to get my bedroll—Dean wants me to stay with him.”

“Of course,” Benny says, backing up as Castiel steps farther into the tent.

She stops. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to speak with you,” she says, gesturing toward their bedrolls. When Benny doesn’t move immediately, Castiel takes a seat on her own and indicates that he should follow suit.

“What would you like to say?” Benny asks as he sits, back straighter than usual.

Castiel considers this for a moment. “Benny, I understand if you’re angry with me for lying to you. I—”

“Of course not, Highness,” Benny interrupts, and Castiel cannot hold back a sigh.

“If you truly weren’t angry, you wouldn’t be treating me like this.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“But you _do_ ,” Castiel says, exasperated. “Why can’t we talk like we used to, when I was just Collins? I thought we were friends. I nearly died for you, more than once, as you nearly did for me. So why—”

“Because you’re _not_ Collins,” Benny answers, but his frustration is showing in his tone, which is already much more familiar than it was when Castiel first entered the tent. “We’re not from the same strata, and you and I—we just—” he shakes his head. “How could we possibly be friends?”

Castiel doesn’t understand. “Counts and barons and their offspring can certainly be friends with members of the royal family,” she says. “Your objections make no sense, so what is it, really, that you think is stopping us?”

Benny just stares at her, probably hoping to out-stubborn her, but she has the patience to wait him out. Eventually, he says, “The king. You’re a smart girl. There’s no way you didn’t notice the way he was looking at me. It doesn’t matter whether or not there is anything untoward between us. He’ll be jealous, no matter what our relationship is.”

“You think Dean—”

“I _know_ ,” Benny interrupts. “I know jealousy when I see it.”

“That’s impossible,” Castiel says. “He’s angry with me—he doesn’t even want to _see_ me.” He doesn’t believe her, doesn’t see the depth of her regard for him, doesn’t _want_ her. “He wouldn’t care—”

“That doesn’t matter,” Benny says. “You are his woman. Even if he’s angry with you, he can’t possibly stand to see you near another man. Perhaps you didn’t notice the way he was glaring at me, but I did.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Would you like me to demonstrate? I’m willing to bet that if I walked into his tent right now, he’d glare daggers at me until I left. It’d be even worse if I returned with you.”

“No,” Castiel says quickly. “I won’t have you risking your head to prove your point.”

“See? You must know he’s still possessive when it comes to you, if you know that it’ll be risking my head for me to show myself in his presence,” Benny says.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Castiel tries to argue.

“I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but I guess it has something to do with everyone thinking that you’re dead,” Benny says, looking over at Castiel for confirmation. When she nods, he continues, “Maybe it was your fault; maybe it wasn’t. Either way, the fact that he was willing to go to war over you means that he cared about you very much. His jealousy—and the fact that he’s made an attempt to hide it—means that he still cares about you now.”

“You seem to make a good point, but it’s… it’s complicated,” Castiel says. Changing the subject, she says, “I don’t care what anyone else thinks of us. As long as you and I have clear consciences, that’s all that matters. I… I understand if you don’t want me as a friend anymore, but if you’re rejecting my friendship for any other reasons, I want you to reconsider.”

Benny doesn’t answer, and at first Castiel thinks that he’s just taking some time to consider it. But after some time passes in silence, Castiel gets to her feet and packs up her bedroll, blanket, and pillow.

She hadn’t expected it to come to this, hadn’t expected it to hurt so much, but she’d thought she’d found a friend in him, found a kindred spirit in this warrior, rough around the edges but heroic and noble at the core. But after losing her husband, what is it to lose a friend?

“Thank you for looking after me,” she says, holding her free hand out for him to shake.

Benny gets to his feet as well and takes her hand. “I’ll miss you, Collins.”

There’s a mischievous glint to his eyes that has become very familiar to Castiel over the past two weeks, and she breaks into a wide, relieved smile. “Thank you, Benny,” she says with feeling, tears springing to her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Aw, hell,” Benny says, taking her bundle from her and discarding it before pulling her in for a hug.

Castiel just goes, accepting the comfort while she can, and when he starts patting her back, she breaks into sobs, unable to stop herself.

“‘S fine,” Benny murmurs into her hair, one hand coming up to rest on the back of her head. “Just let go. It’s all going to be just fine.”

But it isn’t—it _isn’t_. Castiel hadn’t meant to get so carried away, hadn’t meant to let slip so much in front of Dean, yet he didn’t react at all when she expressed her feelings for him. He hadn’t even _blinked_. He’d just stared her down and then coolly reminded her that he didn’t want to see her anymore.

Maybe she _shouldn’t_ go to his tent. Maybe she should stay here. Would he even _care?_ Benny seems to think he would, but Castiel doubts it.

Eventually, her eyes dry, but she can’t seem to stop clinging to Benny’s shoulders. Genuine kindness seems so rare now, especially after learning that even Meg was keeping so much from her, and Castiel doesn’t want to let this go.

“Whatever the issue is between you and the king, I know it isn’t simple,” Benny says quietly. “You don’t have to tell me anything—I don’t want to know. I just want you to know that whatever happens, I’ll stand by you. You are… absolutely unique, the only lady I know who would march into battle for her husband, and I can only hope that he is worthy of such devotion from you.”

Castiel finally pulls back, lifting her eyes to meet Benny’s, and says, “He is. I know he is.”

The corners of Benny’s lips twitch upward into a small smile. “Then I’m sure he’ll come to realize his mistake and see the truth of you.”

“You can’t possibly know that,” Castiel says, voice small.

“But I do,” Benny insists. “If he is as worthy as you think he is, then he can’t be so blind.”

Castiel smiles and takes a step back to lift her bag of things from the ground and sling it over her shoulder. “Thank you,” she says. “Again, thank you.”

“Just don’t give up.”

“I won’t,” Castiel says.

Benny’s hand comes up and pauses, hovering perhaps an inch from the curve of her jaw, and he looks so uncertain that Castiel can hardly stand it. But then his callused fingers are gently tracing the arch of her cheekbone, his warm, rough palm cradling her face, and Castiel closes her eyes because there’s something strangely private about this gesture, about the look on his face in this instant.

His hand falls away after a moment, and when Castiel opens her eyes again, Benny’s eyes are lowered, hand clenched into a fist at his side. “I’m—sorry. That wasn’t—”

“It’s all right,” Castiel says.

Benny huffs, something that’s probably supposed to be a laugh making its way out of his mouth. “No, it really isn’t. Won’t happen again.”

That’s a relief to hear, but Castiel wishes he didn’t have that pinched look on his face. “I should go, before Dean sends people to look for me.”

“Yes,” Benny agrees. “I expect we won’t be seeing much of each other anymore, after this.”

“You’ll come visit, though, when we’re back in Laurentia. Won’t you?”

“If you insist.”

“Oh, come now. You said yourself that Desmond was lousy with a sword. How will you hone your skills without a sparring partner?” Castiel says, trying to lighten the mood.

“I suppose you’re right,” Benny concedes, smiling. “As long as you don’t rescind your invitation, I’ll visit.”

“I’ll hold you to that, then.”

* * *

Less than a full hour after Castiel returns to Dean’s tent, an alarm sounds. Castiel immediately gets to her feet, unsure what it means.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Dean says. “Three quick horn blasts means that the Tarcaelians are trying to leave the city. The knights know how to respond.”

“But I—”

“You don’t need to do anything but stay right here.”

“I can help,” Castiel says. “Every bit counts, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“What exactly did you say to the soldiers before? The difference between winning and losing could rest on the effort of a single man?”

Dean shakes his head. “That doesn’t apply to you. You’re a woman.”

“I’m a woman who has held her own in battle from the border to the capital, and I don’t appreciate you treating me like I’m any less than a male soldier.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Dean says. “Just—stay. They really don’t need your help for this fight.”

Castiel grits her teeth and sits back down on her bedroll, annoyed. “Are you worried that I’ll attempt to sabotage your campaign?”

“That’s not—” Dean starts, but he seems to think better of finishing that sentence and says instead, “It doesn’t matter. I want you to stay here.”

“You wouldn’t be able to stop me if I really wanted to go,” Castiel points out. “Why should I stay?”

“Because I’m ordering you to.”

“As a king?” Castiel says, incensed by the fact that he is _giving orders_ to her, now.

“As your husband,” Dean responds.

Surprised by his answer, Castiel’s anger dissipates like a puff of smoke, leaving her with nothing to say. She doesn’t even know whether or not she’s happy that he still acknowledges their relationship; he obviously doesn’t think of her as he used to, so what do titles matter, at this point?

But eventually she says, “Very well,” and sits back down to wait for the outcome.


	23. Chapter 23

In the end, the fall of the Tarcaelian capital is pretty anticlimactic. What’s left of the Tarcaelian army either turns on itself—thanks to General Virgil—or surrenders to Dean’s considerably larger force and lifts the gates. Dean and Cas enter the city escorted by the four knights. Michael, Lucifer, and Gabriel follow, and when they near the castle, Raphael joins their ranks.

Soldiers lead the way to the throne room, which they find deserted, and Dean takes a seat as the temporary ruler.

“Where is everyone?” Dean asks.

“Virgil’s men just sent word—they captured the former king attempting to escape through the underground tunnels with his family,” Raphael reports.

This was expected—Dean heard from Cas’s brothers that there were some secret passageways under the castle that the royal children had played in all the time when they were kids. They’d produced the tunnels from memory for Dean’s perusal and gotten word to Raphael to have Virgil’s men stationed at all the openings so that Zachariah wouldn’t escape.

“Good,” Dean says. “While he’s being brought here, I have some orders for my army. They are to set up camp in the streets. We have enough grain to continue sustaining ourselves, so I don’t want to hear of any Laurentian soldier forcing a civilian to provide food or shelter. Garth, I’d like you to oversee this.

“Next, I want men sent to each of the major Tarcaelian cities with news of the Laurentian victory and reassurance that while I hold power for the time being, a Tarcaelian will take the throne when I leave. I am making Caleb responsible for this.” After a pause, he adds, “Raphael, you will accompany him to confirm that he is speaking the truth.”

He waves one hand to dismiss the men he just named, and they leave the throne room promptly. The remaining occupants of the room spend a few minutes waiting in silence before the man at the door announces that Zachariah is just outside.

“Bring him in,” Dean says.

Zachariah is led into the room, hands tied behind his back. The soldiers behind him wear Tarcaelian colors, and Dean feels a little more secure about this war as a result—if Zachariah were a good ruler, his army would be less inclined to turn on him, less willing to tie him up and force him to kneel in front of his conqueror.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Dean says. “I suppose I should call you uncle.”

“You don’t have to play nice,” Zachariah says. “I know why you’re here and what you want.”

“What do you think I want?”

“Isn’t it obvious from the company you keep? You want revenge—you want me dead. You’re acting king now, so order my death. No one’s going to stop you.”

“Don’t think I won’t do it,” Dean says.

Cas, who’s been standing just to his right, rests her hand over his, a reminder for him not to be hasty. He knows what to do, though. He can’t kill Zachariah outright, without reason. He’s heard some things about the kind of king Zachariah has been, but he doesn’t exactly have a convincing reason to kill the man, since Cas’s brothers constructed Zachariah’s supposed assassination attempts on Dean and Cas.

“I am going to give you one opportunity to explain yourself before I sentence you,” Dean says. “The first charge I lay against you is the murder of the former Tarcaelian king, your own brother. The second and third are the attempted murders of my wife, and of me. What have you to say?”

Zachariah laughs. “You’d better watch your back, Dean Winchester,” he says. “That is all I have to tell you. I’ve known, ever since the moment I slipped the poison into my dear brother’s food—”

Cas’s hand suddenly closes into a fist, nails scraping against the back of Dean’s hand, and he flips his hand over to grasp her fist, unable to ignore her distress. Several yards away, Michael, Lucifer, and Gabriel have noticeably stiffened, anger and hostility radiating from them.

“—that one day, his sons would return to reclaim the throne,” Zachariah continues. “On that day, only one side would survive, and the winner would take the throne. Do you _really_ think that Michael and Lucifer will allow you to choose someone else to sit upon that throne? They may have put their full effort into helping you win this war, but don’t be so naïve as to think that they’re really on your side. Now that I’ve been removed, the next obstacle in their path is you.”

“I know the risks of working with them, and I am not afraid,” Dean replies coolly. “Is there anything else?”

Zachariah lifts his chin proudly. “Nothing.”

“Very well. Then for the crimes I mentioned before, I hereby sentence the former King Zachariah of Tarcaelius to death by hanging. The sentence will be executed at noon tomorrow, and the prisoner will be placed in a holding cell, not to be opened again until execution of the sentence. He is permitted one visitor of his choice.” Looking down at the man, Dean says, “Choose wisely.”

The soldiers lift Zachariah back to his feet and lead him out of the hall.

“Who else of his family was captured?” Dean asks.

“All,” a soldier says. “His two sons are just outside—those are his only direct relatives. The servants have been detained as well.”

“Keep the servants for questioning by my knights, but tell them that I do not intend to kill them along with their king. And send in Uriel and Balthazar.”

Moments later, the two former princes enter the room, heads bowed, and go down to their knees without resisting.

“It’s been a while, Balthazar,” Dean says.

“Yes,” Balthazar agrees, lifting his head. He looks gaunter than he was when Dean last saw him, thinned with worry, and Dean is tempted to look at Cas, just to see her reaction.

“I have no quarrel with you or your brother,” Dean says. “It sounded enough like your father acted on his own, for his own gain, and while you also benefited, I have no reason to believe you were involved. So I leave your fates to the new king, whom I will name and crown tomorrow morning.”

“Why won’t you name him today?” Lucifer asks.

“It is an important decision and should not be hurried,” Dean replies readily. “Now, I think I’ve done everything that I meant to do today, so you’re all dismissed.”

As the people in the room clear out, Dean tells Victor and Gordon to help him to the guests’ chambers, with Balthazar to lead the way. Cas follows, and after they’re set up in their new temporary quarters, Dean lies back to fully relax his abdomen.

“You shouldn’t have walked around so much today,” Cas says as she puts the covers over him. “Pike may have said that it was okay, but you need to take care of yourself.”

Dean sits up, and the covers fall off his shoulders. “I know my limits,” he says.

“I wasn’t insinuating any weakness or ignorance on your part,” Cas says, placating. She pushes at his shoulders to get him to lie back down, and he allows himself to be moved. “Now, about tomorrow—are you certain you want to announce your choice publicly?”

“Of course,” Dean says. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Cas sighs. “I worry about your safety,” she answers.

“I’ll be safer with everyone’s eyes on me, don’t you think?” Dean says. “Don’t try to talk me out of it—I’ve made up my mind.”

“As you wish,” Cas says.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and a male voice pronounces, “Balthazar requests a private audience with the king.”

“Dean—” Cas starts.

“Granted,” Dean says. “Cas, you can go.”

The door swings open, but Cas doesn’t move. Balthazar steps into the room a little hesitantly, and Dean motions for him to come closer.

“Am I interrupting something? I can wait outside,” Balthazar says.

“No, not at all. Cas was just about to leave,” Dean says pointedly.

“Can I stay, cousin?” Cas asks, appealing to Balthazar. “I cannot think of anything you could have to say to Dean that would be inappropriate for me to hear.”

“I apologize,” Balthazar says. “It would be better discussed in private.”

Cas sighs. “Very well. I will return later, then.” She exits the room in silence and closes the door, leaving Dean and Balthazar alone.

Dean turns his attention to his cousin by marriage and asks, “What did you want to tell me?”

“It’s hard to decide how I should put this,” Balthazar says.

“Take your time,” Dean says.

But Balthazar hardly waits a few seconds before saying, “You aren’t treating my cousin fairly.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean asks, even though he has a sinking suspicion that he already knows why Balthazar is here.

“She wasn’t involved; I swear it,” Balthazar says.

“Did she tell you to come and say this to me?”

“Of course not. She wouldn’t ask this of me.”

“Then how did you hear of the truth?” Dean asks. “Was it one of her brothers?”

“No—I received word by carrier pigeon,” Balthazar answers.

Dean sighs. “From Laurentia? Was it from Inias or Samandriel?”

“Neither,” Balthazar says, producing a scroll from his pocket and moving closer so that it’s within reach.

Dean takes it and unrolls it to see a message written in familiar handwriting. “Sam,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head. Sure enough, _Sam Winchester_ is the signature at the bottom.

“Your brother may not have told me everything, but he trusts Castiel. Why don’t you?”

“She lied to me before. When it comes to her family, she clearly doesn’t hesitate to—”

“No,” Balthazar interrupts. “I know Castiel. She can be coldhearted in some respects, but she is uncommonly kind in most. When it comes to people she cares about—people she _loves_ —she would never—”

“She loves her brothers, too.”

“More than you? Do you really think so little of yourself?” When Dean doesn’t respond, Balthazar makes an annoyed huffing sound and says, “You _do_ realize that she chose to go to war for your sake. When her brothers disappeared, she did nothing. She was younger, yes, but when she was of age, she didn’t leave to search for them, either.”

“She would have lost everything if she left then,” Dean says. “And she would have been in danger.”

Balthazar raises his eyebrows. “Are you saying that she had nothing to lose this time? That going to _battle_ is less dangerous than riding into the countryside to find her long lost brothers? You’re being unreasonable.”

“Why are you trying so hard to convince me? What’s in it for you?” Dean asks, frowning. “I thought you—” he pauses, ready to stop himself for the sake of propriety, but he figures that at this point, he may as well go for it. So he starts over, “I thought you didn’t want her to be with me.”

“I didn’t,” Balthazar admits. “But if the rift between you two was severe enough for your brother to write to me… I imagine neither of you want it to continue.” He sighs. “Do you remember how it felt when you thought that she was gone? Can you imagine losing her again—for real, this time? Deny it all you want, but I know you’ll regret it if she died thinking you still wanted nothing to do with her.”

Dean clenches his jaw, frustrated, because about this much Balthazar is absolutely correct. No matter what Dean thinks of Cas, he can’t imagine hating her or being happy to be rid of her.

“What do you want from me, then? Should I just forgive her for—”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Balthazar interrupts. “That is what I’m trying to tell you. You don’t have the right to forgive her because she didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You weren’t there,” Dean says. “How can you know?”

“Sam wasn’t there either, yet he seems sure as well. If you don’t trust my judgment, surely you trust that of your own brother. I’ve been led to believe that your youngest brother supports Castiel as well.”

“I just don’t believe her,” Dean says quietly. “I don’t know how to fix it. I—I want to. Believe me, I do. I’d be very, very happy if I could go right back to the past, back before I learned anything about her brothers and about this scheme.”

Balthazar looks away, clearly disappointed. “It seems you’ve made up your mind. I suppose that’s that, then. Nothing I say will change anything.” Dean doesn’t respond, so Balthazar says, “Well, it was worth a try. Thank you for listening.”

He turns to leave the room, and Dean says, “If you’d like a private audience with Cas, you can have it.”

“Thank you, but I doubt she would allow it,” Balthazar says.

He leaves the room without another word, and Dean is left wondering what exactly he meant by that.

* * *

As soon as she leaves Dean, Castiel heads for the quarters that had been designated for her brothers; as long as she is with them, then they can’t move against Dean. She instructs Victor to stay by the door and listen carefully to ensure that Dean and Balthazar aren’t arguing, so she feels a little better about his safety. After all, Dean _did_ just sentence Balthazar’s father to death. The father and son weren’t exactly on good terms, as Uriel had been the favored son for as long as she could remember, but they were still father and son.

When Castiel reaches her brothers’ quarters, she is allowed inside almost immediately and finds only three of her brothers present. She is about to panic when she remembers that Dean sent Raphael away from the capital to spread the news of the Laurentian victory and the impending regime change.

“Elle,” Gabriel says. “What are you doing here?”

“Please clear your servants from the room,” she says.

“Leave,” Michael says, looking around the room at the few servants still standing around.

When they’re all gone, Castiel says, “Whatever it is you intend to do tomorrow, don’t. Please. And don’t tell me that you don’t have anything planned—I know you do.”

“We really don’t,” Lucifer says. “If Dean is smart, he’ll choose the correct king—one who has the right to rule the country.”

“And if not, you’ll kill him,” Castiel says. “I know what you’re thinking, and you can’t. I won’t let you.”

“We don’t intend to kill him—we don’t intend to do anything,” Michael insists. “As soon as Zachariah is executed, we’ll have achieved everything that we set out to achieve. I wouldn’t mind returning to our complex and living out the rest of my life there.”

It breaks Castiel’s heart that she can’t tell whether or not he’s lying. “You say that you don’t have anything planned, but I heard what Zachariah said today, and you even used me in your scheme, multiple times. I just can’t believe that you have nothing planned in case Dean chooses not to place one of you on the throne.”

“Dean’s been good to me,” Gabriel says. “I wouldn’t kill him.”

“And you want me to just believe that?”

“Yes,” Lucifer answers. “Because we’re your brothers, and we wouldn’t—”

“ _Don’t_ say that you wouldn’t lie to me. You already have, more than once,” Castiel says.

Lucifer looks offended by her words, and it only serves to make Castiel angrier, to the point that she thinks she might be physically sick. How can any man manipulate his sister’s relationship with her husband for his own personal gain? Worse still, how can said man turn right around to claim kinship with his sister when it would suit him best?

Castiel closes her eyes, willing the nausea away. “I won’t make the mistake of believing you lightly,” she declares. “If you have even a shred of decency left in you, you will cancel whatever you have planned for tomorrow. Because if you don’t—if you hurt Dean in any way, I _will_ make sure that you pay. All of you. And if you want to kill him, you’ll have to kill me first.”

“Elle—” Michael starts, upset.

“I don’t understand you,” Lucifer says, shaking his head. “What has he done to deserve so much loyalty from you? We’ve seen him over the past day—we heard about how he reacted to what you’ve done for him, and it’s nothing. He doesn’t _care_ about you, Elle, so why do you care so much about him? _We_ are your family. He’s just a man.”

“I’ve already made it quite clear that I consider him my family far more than you. After all, I… I don’t even know whether or not being part of your family is a good thing,” Castiel says. She wishes she could remove the sudden sadness and disappointment from her brothers’ faces, but she can’t fix their mess for them—they chose their own path, so they should have seen the consequences. “All it’s gotten me,” she continues, “is heartbreak, and—and being used to suit your purposes. I can do without that.”

“Is this what you truly believe?” Michael asks, voice hushed as though it’ll hide the pain.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. “I thought that you loved me, that you cared about me. But you chose to marry me off to someone I didn’t know, manipulated both his and my emotions, and pretended to kill me, in the process of which you literally _and_ figuratively stabbed me in the back. _How_ is being a part of this _family_ supposed to appeal to me, hmm?”

It’s silent in the room for several long minutes after her outburst, but Castiel can’t bring herself to regret it. The words and emotions have been circling around in her head for the past weeks, and it feels good to finally let them out.

Gabriel is the one who breaks the silence. “We’ve done a lot to hurt you, and we’re sorry about it.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Castiel says. “I don’t want to hear that you _had_ to, or that you were doing it for all of our sakes, so that we might regain our status, or some other excuse. I would have been perfectly happy if all five of us could just be together. If we could just mourn our father’s passing and then just get on with our lives, like normal people. I’d much rather have that than—than _revenge_. Zachariah’s death won’t make Father return. Seeing any one of you on the throne won’t bring me enough happiness to make up for all the pain that you’ve caused me.

“So please, I beg of you, don’t do anything stupid tomorrow. _Please_. You’re all alive, and you’re all here, together. I will be returning to Laurentia with Dean, but the four of you are free. Free to do what you want with your lives. To be _happy_. That’s all I want from you. Please don’t force me to hurt you.”

“You’ve said so much, but all you really mean is that you’re choosing him over us. Is that it?” Lucifer says.

“If you must interpret it that way, then yes,” Castiel says wearily.

“Then I have nothing left to say to you,” Lucifer says, expression stony. “Goodbye.”

He turns and walks away without a backward glance, and Castiel looks between Michael and Gabriel, waiting for one of them to react.

“I’m sorry,” is all Gabriel says, and it seems they’ve decided that they’ll go through with their plans for tomorrow after all.

Castiel looks to Michael. “Please. He has always treated me well, has never done me any harm. And he never _would_ do me any harm. I won’t stand by and let you carry out your plan tomorrow, whatever it may be.”

“I really don’t bear your husband any ill will,” Michael says. “I understand your reasons for suspecting that we will act against him, but I assure you that we won’t.”

That sounds like a lie, given Lucifer and Gabriel’s responses, so Castiel just sighs and says, “I hope so, for all of our sakes.”

* * *

Castiel spends the night in Dean’s bed, but they don’t speak to each other. She can’t even look at him, rolling over to face the wall instead. She waits for his breathing to even out, for some sense of familiarity, but she never hears it. God, is she to be denied even that much?

In the morning, they dress in silence, Castiel assisting Dean a little to avoid agitating his wound.

She dons a borrowed dress—they’ll be attending a crowning in the morning, and it wouldn’t do for a queen to appear before the people dressed as a man. It is loose on her, ill-fitting and uncomfortable, but it’s better than the other option, which was too tight and would have left very little to the imagination.

“Did you sleep all right?” Castiel asks. They’re the first words that have passed between them since she returned to their quarters last night.

“Yes,” Dean says, and it’s a bald-faced lie—she knows he lay awake longer than she did.

But she forces her lips up into a small smile and hates that she has to fake it. “I’m glad.”

Castiel helps Dean to his feet, but as soon as he’s standing on his own, there’s an uncomfortable twisting sensation in her gut, nausea rising and making her dizzy, and just like that, she knows that she is about to throw up. Castiel makes it a few steps away from the bed and braces her hand on a stool before vomiting, and it’s foul-tasting, sour, makes her gag.

“Cas,” Dean says, concerned, and he’s beside her in a second, one hand patting her back. “Are you ill?”

Castiel shakes her head slightly before spitting on the ground, trying to rid her mouth of the taste. “I’m fine,” she says to Dean, lifting one hand to press it against her chest. The pressure seems to help a little.

“Guards!” Dean barks.

“There’s really no need,” Castiel tries.

But the guards have already entered the room, and Dean says, “Fetch Pike, the physician. And bring a cup of water.” The men leave the room promptly. “Of course there’s a need,” Dean says to Castiel. “No matter what, you’re still the queen. Your health is important.”

Ash appears in the doorway, propped up with crutches, and says, “What happened? I heard commotion.”

“Cas is sick,” Dean says.

“I’m fine,” Castiel insists. Apart from some nausea, which has mostly faded already, she really does feel fine. She doesn’t feel feverish or ill or congested, either.

“But you threw up all over the floor,” Ash observes as he levers his way into the room. “It doesn’t look like you’re fine.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, grabbing a stool to place next to Ash.

As the servant takes the offered seat, Dean wraps his hand around Castiel’s upper arm and pulls her toward the table to sit her down. She allows herself to be led, mindful of the fact that if she struggles too much, she could hurt him—he is still in recovery. She supposes it’s a good thing that Pike is coming; perhaps he’ll be able to take a look at all three of them while he’s here.

A few minutes later, the physician enters the room trailed by a servant, who places a goblet of water on the table. Castiel uses it to rinse her mouth out before spitting it back into the cup.

“What is the matter?” Pike asks worriedly.

“I’m fine,” Castiel says. “I just felt a little nauseous and vomited a little. It has passed already.”

“Passed? Just like that?” Pike asks, frowning. After a moment of consideration, he asks, “Have you felt uncommonly tired or sleepy lately? Or perhaps short of breath?”

“Well, yes, but I’d assumed it was because I—lately, I’ve been more active than I customarily am.”

“Have you been dizzy or nauseous before this?”

“No,” Castiel replies. But then she recalls her talk with her brothers yesterday. She’d thought she was about to throw up then, too. “Wait, yes,” she says. “Once, yesterday.”

“Mm. Please forgive me, but have your—um.” Pike pauses to clear his throat nervously before blurting out, “Have you felt anything unusual about your breasts?”

“Pike!” Dean says sharply, making the young physician jump. “Cas, don’t answer that.”

“They might have,” Castiel says, frowning. “Is this relevant? Do I have a condition?” Her breasts have indeed felt strangely sensitive—and _fuller_ —lately, but she’d assumed that it had something to do with the way they were compressed under armor so often in the past two weeks, that perhaps they were swelling up to counteract the flattening they had taken.

“If I’m not mistaken,” Pike says slowly, “what you just experienced was some mild morning sickness.”

“Morning sickness?” Castiel repeats, startled. “But that would mean that I’m—”

“Pregnant, yes,” Pike says. Turning to Dean, he says, “When we have some more time, I could question her to get a more definitive answer, but the signs are rather clear. Congratulations.” When no one responds, Pike starts to leave the room. “If there’s nothing else…?”

“How far along is she?” Dean asks suddenly.

“I can’t be certain, but I would say barely a month, at most,” Pike says.

Dean makes a dismissive gesture, and Pike all but scampers out of the room. Ash gets up without a word and limps away as well, pulling the doors closed behind him.

“Did you know?” Dean asks, voice soft.

“I had no idea,” Castiel answers, shaking her head. “I… I still don’t really believe it.”

Dean steps closer, reaching one hand out to press it to her stomach.

“It’s too early to feel anything, I’m sure,” Castiel says, looking up at him with a frown, but there’s such a look of wonder on his face that Castiel has to avert her eyes.

“Barely a month,” Dean says, echoing the physician’s words. Then his hand is at her jaw, tilting her face up toward him, and his eyes are concerned. “But you—you’ve been here, fighting with the army. That can’t have been good for the baby. Cas—”

“It will be fine,” Castiel insists. “If it cannot take a little jolt now and again, then it does not deserve to be our child.”

“But there was also the drug to induce your fake death, and the blade to your stomach—it’s already a miracle the baby is still alive,” Dean says. “You won’t object now if I ask you to be more careful with yourself, will you?”

“No,” Castiel says. “I will be careful.”

“Good.”

“We should go,” Castiel says, inclining her head toward the door. “The people are waiting to find out whom you have chosen to be their new king.”

Dean nods. “Let’s go, then.”

Castiel retrieves the Tarcaelian crown and places it upon Dean’s head before following him out of the room and toward the throne room, where the crowning is to take place.

She doesn’t know how to feel about the knowledge of a new life growing inside her, evidence of their union. Will Dean change his mind about her for the sake of the child? He’s shown concern for her, but it’s only been for the sake of her as a queen, or for the sake of their child. Nothing between them is the same as before, and Castiel doesn’t dare to hope that they will have a chance to start over.

At least, she thinks bitterly, he won’t be able to _completely_ ignore her when they get back to Laurentia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't know how they would determine pregnancies in medieval times. Did a bit of research, but I didn't really like what I came up with, and in Chinese period dramas the physicians always just sorta took a person's pulse and knew everything, which makes no sense, so. Blah-blah medieval science, *shhh* just accept it.
> 
> Also, I am officially finished writing this fic! There are only two chapters left. I know this one was a little bit short, but the last two chapters are a bit on the long side, so hopefully they'll make up for it.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for reading:)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said in a comment somewhere, the ending to this fic is similar to that of "Written in the Scars on Our Hearts," in that the final chapter will be sort of an epilogue. That makes this the last "official" chapter of the story, so I'd like to thank you guys for all your feedback and encouragement, and for being patient with me while I was in China. You're all awesome<3

Dean and Cas head toward the throne room, intending to enter through the back door, the one that’s behind the throne because it’ll be a shorter distance for Dean to have to walk. Ash follows on his crutches, along with two guards from Dean’s army.

An old man stands in front of the door, and he doesn’t move aside when they reach it. Dean is about to ask who he is when Cas says, “Joshua.”

Dean hasn’t heard of anyone important named Joshua, but the old man just smiles and says, “Queen Castiel. It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” Cas agrees. “Dean and I are expected inside. If you wouldn’t mind…”

“I’d just like to have a few words with the king,” Joshua says.

“I’m listening,” Dean says.

“Before I say anything else, I’d like you to know that I greatly appreciate what you have done for our nation. Zachariah was… poisonous, and the people are grateful for his removal,” Joshua says. “And despite having the right as conqueror to take what you wished—to empty our food stores, strip our wealth, and force us out of our beds—you and your soldiers have only treated us with respect and courtesy. I must admit I did not expect it, given our history.”

Dean’s used to being praised—he’s heard plenty of compliments in the past from people who wanted to get onto his good side. But he isn’t used to this level of sincerity, and it makes him uncomfortable. “I just showed some common decency,” he says. “That’s all.”

Joshua smiles. “I’m sure you know that common decency isn’t as common as its name suggests.”

Hoping to move past this subject, Dean says, “You seemed to have something else to tell me. What is it?”

“Ah, yes. The people have high regard for you and your character,” Joshua says. “So I must remind you that despite your status as King of Laurentia, you are on Tarcaelian soil. And while you are not bound by our laws and traditions, I would like you to observe them for this ceremony, as it will surely be related to the general population by word of mouth.”

“All right,” Dean says. “What do I have to do?”

Pleased, Joshua answers, “Everyone is already in position. The eligible members of the royal family are all in the room save Raphael, who is represented at present by General Virgil. Usually a servant stands behind each one of them, but the queen requested that four of your knights be placed there instead.”

“One of them is missing, though,” Dean recalls—Caleb can’t have returned that quickly, and the fact that Virgil is representing Raphael is proof enough that they haven’t returned yet.

“I asked Benny to stand in,” Cas says. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Dean shakes his head. “Of course not. It’s fine.” Looking back over at Joshua, he says, “Continue.”

“The Tarcaelian nobles near enough to be summoned have all been brought into the castle and will be standing in rows behind the royals. The walls on either side of the hall are lined with soldiers, both from your army and ours. You will not address any of them individually—not the soldiers, nor the nobles.”

Frowning, Dean asks, “Why not?”

“It would be beneath your current position in this ceremony, temporary or not,” Joshua replies. Then he goes on, “When you enter the room, everyone should fall silent. You will take your seat upon the throne, and the eligible royals will go to their knees to show their respect. I understand that as conqueror, you have the right to crown whomever you like, but the crown should by all rights remain within the royal family.”

“You won’t have to worry about that. I’ve already made my choice,” Dean says.

“Very well. You may say whatever you like before descending to pass on the crown to the royal of your choice. If you’d like, you can wish him well. He will then rise to his feet, and you will shake hands.”

Joshua stops there, and Dean blinks. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Joshua confirms with a quick nod. “This is a strange situation because you are still king of a separate nation—usually the crowning is done by one of our own, so he can retreat and allow the new king to take the throne. Your status, however—”

“I’ll step aside at the end of the ceremony,” Dean volunteers. “When the new king takes his place, I’ll be a guest here.”

“That’s very gracious of you. Thank you,” Joshua says, just a hint of surprise flashing across his face before he masks it. “I will not delay you any longer. You may enter.”

When he finishes speaking, he steps back and twists the knob, pulling the door open for them. Dean steps through first, Cas just a step behind him. As soon as he walks out from behind the throne, the room falls silent, just as Joshua said it would. Dean makes his way to the throne steadily and takes his seat. Cas stands to the right of the throne, and Ash props himself up on the left.

The royals—Michael, Lucifer, “Raphael,” Gabriel, Uriel, and Balthazar, from Dean’s right to his left—kneel down as one, and Dean sees that his knights have indeed been stationed behind them. They’re fully decked in battle armor, and he frowns, because that’s hardly normal. Cas asked for them to be here, so did they suit up at her request? He’s surprised that Gordon followed her instructions without coming directly to Dean; he can’t imagine the man being content with taking orders from Cas.

“Good morning,” Dean says, pushing aside his other thoughts for now—he can spend as much time as he wants on them later, when there isn’t a room full of people hanging onto his every word. “I’ve been told that all of the nobles near enough to be summoned are currently in this room. I offer my apologies to all the ones whose lives have been disrupted by the war. You should already know that you were gathered here today for the crowning of your new king. But before I get to that, I just wanted to straighten out my reasons for invading so that we won’t have any misunderstandings.

“There’s been no love lost between our nations. Our history has been bloody. I even led an army against you once before, under my father’s name. But this war was not fought because of a petty border dispute or an old grudge. I wish I had a more honorable reason for barging into your homeland, but I have to admit it was because of a personal vendetta against your former king.”

He pauses for a moment, scanning the room to gauge the nobles’ reaction. Most of them keep their heads lowered, but a few are looking back at him. Some are actually _smiling_ , a reaction he isn’t sure he understands fully, but he does have a clue as to why they might be happy to be rid of Zachariah.

“I have, however, heard about the former king’s poor treatment of his subjects,” Dean continues. “I’ve seen the evidence of it in the poor dwellings of your subjects and the relative lack of will to fight in your soldiers. As I said, I’ve led an army against you before, and I remember having immense respect for the warriors in your armies. I’d mentally prepared myself for a difficult battle, but it was far easier to reach the capital than I’d anticipated—far easier than it should have been.

“And while our past relations have tended toward hostile, I’d like to put them behind us and move on. My marriage with Castiel was supposed to serve that purpose, but it clearly was unsuccessful. So in selecting a new king for you, I intend to choose a man who not only will be able to maintain peace with me, but will also take into account the needs of his kingdom, and of his people. If the king I choose turns out to be weak and useless or vile and scheming, I will return to take responsibility for my choice,” Dean vows.

When he looks out at his listeners this time, he sees a few skeptical faces and several that show begrudging approval. But the majority of the nobility seem pleased with his speech, and that’s more than enough for him.

Now that his piece has been said, Dean gets to his feet and walks down two steps—unlike his throne in Laurentia, this one is placed on a small platform. Cas follows him, and he wonders if that’s allowed. Joshua said nothing about whether or not she would accompany him while he was doing the actual crowning, but he supposes she knows more about Tarcaelian traditions than he does. If she deems it acceptable, then it probably is.

Dean starts from Michael and slowly walks past the kneeling royals, stopping at the other end, in front of Balthazar. The room is silent and still, to the extent that it feels as though no one’s even _breathing_ anymore. Dean’s breaths sound loud to his own ears as he lifts his hands to his head and removes the Tarcaelian crown that Cas placed on his head earlier this morning. He sets the golden headpiece upon Balthazar’s head and remembers that he is supposed to wish the new king well.

“The nation is in your hands, now,” he says. “Treat it fairly, and I trust you will fare well.” He backs up a step, then, and says, “Rise.”

Balthazar gets to his feet, and when he meets Dean’s eyes, Dean sees disbelief and worry and maybe even a hint of disappointment—as Dean suspected, he doesn’t even _want_ the crown. In fact, it was for precisely this reason that Dean chose him.

“Thank you,” Balthazar says quietly.

Dean extends a hand for Balthazar to shake, and he takes it after only a moment’s hesitation. Dean opens his mouth to add something about Balthazar’s health, because it seems appropriate to give him a personal blessing as well, but before he can say a word, he’s yanked backwards forcefully.

The sudden motion twists at Dean’s wound, and he hisses, unprepared for the sting. Still off-balance and just registering the pain in his stomach, he sees Benny leaping forward, hears the sound of a body hitting the floor with a grunt, followed by that of a weapon clattering to the ground.

When he is righted again, he quickly assesses the situation. Cas was the one who pulled him back. Benny leapt forward, most likely to block a projectile—there’s a knife on the floor, stained with blood, but there is no wounded body on the ground, and Benny is still standing in front of Dean, clearly unharmed. Lucifer has been pinned down by Victor and Garth—Michael and Virgil have scattered to either side, staying out of their way, and Gabriel and Uriel are on their feet as well.

But there’s blood—whose blood?

“Gordon, go to Pike,” Cas says, and Dean catches sight of blood dripping from his knight’s gloved hand as he leaves the room—with no time to draw a weapon, he must have knocked the knife off-course with his own hand.

The nobles are all murmuring amongst themselves, as are the soldiers lining the walls, and Dean is just getting his bearings, coming up with something to say, but he doesn’t have time because Cas is already speaking—

“On your knees!”

She doesn’t specify who should be on their knees, but Michael and Gabriel instantly drop down. Virgil follows a moment later, as does Uriel, but she shakes her head and gestures for those two to get out of the way. Her grip is still tight on Dean’s upper arm, like she doesn’t trust him to still be alive when she lets go, and he doesn’t attempt to shake her off.

Her lips stretch into a smile, but her eyes are fiery and severe, and it makes for an extremely intimidating look. “So this was the best you could come up with,” she says, and it’s silent now, everyone straining to hear what she has to say. “After everything— _everything_ —that I said to you yesterday, _this_ is what you give to me.”

Yesterday? Dean hadn’t known that she’d talked to her brothers yesterday—damn it, this must have been why she wanted the knights to be stationed behind her brothers and cousins. She’d even expressed worry about this being a public announcement.

Has she—has she _really_ been sincere, this entire time?

“Elle, this time we really didn’t—” Gabriel starts.

“ _Don’t_.”

Her voice is low and dangerous as she releases Dean to take a small step forward, and Gabriel clams up quickly. Dean wonders if that’s proof that he was complicit, or if he’s just trying to placate his sister.

When Cas speaks again, there’s a note of hurt blended in with the fury in her tone. “You have absolutely no idea just how much pain you would have caused me, had you succeeded today. Dean is the _father_ of my _child_.”

This wasn’t quite how Dean had wanted the world to find out about Cas’s pregnancy, but he supposes it’s more her choice than his, given that she’ll be the one carrying the child.

“How could you do this to him? To _me?_ ” she continues, eyes blazing.

It’s rare to see Cas so enflamed in front of so many people, and god, maybe she _wasn’t_ part of her brothers’ scheme—maybe she was as much as victim of their manipulation as Dean was.

It feels as though everyone has been telling him this, but he’s been too afraid to believe it, too afraid to renew his trust in her when he fell so hard the first time. But no matter what her influence is over her servants, her brothers, even Balthazar, Cas can’t possibly have bought Sam and Adam over to her side. Adam she could have moved with tears and heartfelt acting, but Sam wouldn’t have believed her easily—he’d been skeptical of her in the first place.

“You may not have actually managed to hurt him, but I cannot allow you to remain free on this Earth any longer, not if I want to sleep securely at night,” Cas says, and her voice is unbelievably even, especially since it was shaking with anger just moments before.

“Queen,” Balthazar says, and Dean is just as startled by the interruption as Cas seems to be. “I am the new monarch here, so their punishment falls to me.”

Cas’s head lowers slightly in deference, but her eyes are challenging, as though she’s daring Balthazar to let her brothers get away with this. She can’t be acting, Dean thinks. The emotions on her face, in her eyes, are too real—too _raw_ —to be fake.

Christ, he owes her an apology. A million apologies. More than he can give her in a lifetime.

He can only hope that Cas has it in her to forgive him.

* * *

It’s difficult for Castiel to step back, even though she knows the law, knows that Balthazar is the one who holds the power to punish her brothers. He doesn’t even _like_ Dean, though—he’ll probably let them off with a lighter penalty than they deserve.

Then again, if Balthazar doesn’t cut Castiel’s brothers down now, he may regret it in the future, when they decide that it’s time to make a move against him to take what they deem is rightfully theirs.

Balthazar goes to the platform and sits upon the throne, and the look on his face is severe and unsympathetic, a look that Castiel hasn’t seen before. She’s known for a long time that Balthazar had no designs to gain power, that he accepted that Uriel would be king—he even seemed _relieved_ at that. But the expression on his face at present certainly befits a monarch.

“I apologize for my cousin’s rashness, King Dean,” he says first. “And I’d like to ask your forgiveness for my inability to exact appropriate punishment for it.”

Castiel turns toward the throne and says, “At risk of impertinence, _I’d_ like to ask what is staying your hand, Highness. You are the ultimate authority in this land, now.”

“Be that as it may, I do not want the history books to remember me as the king whose first action upon taking the throne was to order the execution of his own cousin,” Balthazar responds.

Castiel wants to protest, but Dean’s hand wraps around hers, and she remembers herself. She cannot challenge the new king in front of so many people. She starts to pull her hand back, but Dean twists his hand a little, sliding his fingers between hers and holding on tight, and Castiel gives it up for a lost cause—if he doesn’t trust her to control her temper, she’ll just prove to him that she can stay calm.

Then his thumb slides slowly against hers, and her mind flashes back to—to their wedding, to the vows that they took, standing side by side. She looks up at him, sharply, but only sees the side of his face—his eyes are on Balthazar.

But his thumb is still moving against hers. What is that supposed to _mean?_

“I may not be able to kill you, cousin,” Balthazar continues, and he’s speaking directly to Lucifer now, “but I can ensure that something like this will never happen again.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Lucifer says.

“And try I will,” Balthazar responds calmly. “For the attempted assassination of our honored guest, King Dean of Laurentia, I hereby sentence the former Prince Lucifer of Tarcaelius to a life of imprisonment. He is never to look upon the heavens again, nor is he to see the sun again, for the rest of his days. The sentence is effective immediately—take him away.”

An impressive silence reigns after Lucifer is taken by two guards and escorted from the room, and Castiel holds back a sigh. It’d be easier if he could just be killed. As treacherous as he was, she doesn’t want him to suffer—she wants him to pay with his life.

“Your sister seems to believe that the two of you were involved,” Balthazar says, looking between Michael and Gabriel, now. “However, I have no reason to believe that you are, so you are free to go, if you wish.”

Castiel clenches her jaw at this—she’s almost certain that Lucifer wouldn’t have acted without Michael and Gabriel. But then, they almost certainly would have had a much better plan than this. They’ve never been impatient, and they could easily have waited until the Laurentians had left before making a move on Balthazar…

“This time, I cannot claim prior knowledge of my brother’s actions,” Michael says, and Castiel’s breath catches, because he’s being _honest_. How is that possible? She thinks she can hear it in his voice, but he’d been so intent on taking the throne—or had that all been Lucifer? “However,” he continues, “if Lucifer is to be locked away, then you had better lock me up, too. Because I will not rest until my brother is free.”

“You do realize that you would be joining him for life in a cell—that you would never see the light of day again,” Balthazar says.

Castiel predicts his answer without even looking at him.

“I do, and I accept his sentence.”

“You can’t sentence an innocent man,” Gabriel protests.

“You cannot tell the king what he can or cannot do,” Joshua chides from his position beside the throne—the spot that Castiel vacated when she followed Dean off the platform.

“If I do not sentence you, what is your intended course of action?” Balthazar asks Michael.

“I’ll free him,” Michael says. “No matter what it takes.”

“God, why are you so _stupid?_ ” Gabriel hisses, and Castiel shares the sentiment.

“I only ask that you allow me some time alone with my brother and sister before I am taken away,” Michael says, and when Castiel looks at him, his head is bowed.

“Granted,” Balthazar says. “Take him to an interrogation cell and watch him. He will be brought to join his brother after his last request has been fulfilled.”

“Thank you,” Michael says before getting to his feet and allowing two guards to take him.

“And you, Gabriel? Would you like to join your brothers?” Balthazar asks, but there is no menace in his tone.

“No, sire,” Gabriel responds. His hands are not clenched into fists, but Castiel can see the tension in them, the way Gabriel is struggling to keep himself under control.

“I hope you understand why I cannot allow you to remain in the capital,” Balthazar says quietly.

“What?” Gabriel says, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“The same applies to Raphael,” Balthazar continues. After a pause, he explains, “I’ve seen the depth of your devotion to each other, and I cannot allow the two of you to remain free to come and go in the capital when your brothers are imprisoned here. For my own safety, and for that of my family, small as it may currently be.”

“If I give you my word—”

“I don’t want your word,” Balthazar interrupts. “I give you leave to stay until tomorrow morning, but then you must go. If you show your face here again, I will be forced to execute your brothers.”

Castiel’s eyes flick to her cousin, surprised by his ruthlessness. He has always tended toward being overly merciful—it’s the reason why he struggled so much with chess. Seeing him lay down such dire sentences for her brothers is startling, but Castiel sees the logic behind this decision. Were she in his position, she would likely have made the same choice.

“Fine,” Gabriel says tensely.

Balthazar rests a hand over his mouth, just for a moment, before saying, “You are dismissed. I have a hanging to oversee.”

“It is not yet noon,” Uriel protests.

“Better to finish it sooner,” Balthazar says impassively, eyes steely, and perhaps Castiel entirely misjudged her cousin’s strength of character, after all. “All who wish to witness the hanging can relocate to the executioner’s block.” His eyes rest on Castiel then, and he says, “If you and your brother are willing to grant Michael’s last wish, now is a good time to speak with him.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you, sire.”

The nobles begin to make their way out of the room, and Balthazar stands and leaves through the back door, presumably taking another way to the executioner’s block.

“I thought I’d sentenced the man to a hanging, not a beheading,” Dean says, frowning.

“All of the death sentences are executed in the same place,” Castiel explains.

“Ah.”

Castiel yanks her hand away from his and moves toward her brother, who is now back on his feet. “We should go,” she says.

Gabriel nods. “Yes, I… I suppose so.”

They exit from the back door and find a servant waiting to take them to the interrogation cell, where Michael is being held. To Castiel’s surprise, Dean follows them all the way there. Perhaps he doesn’t trust them and wants to keep an eye on them.

But he doesn’t say a word, and she doesn’t question him.

Too soon, a door is being pushed open, and Castiel steps through to see Michael, seated at a small, wooden table. He looks up as they enter, and his face falls a little at Dean’s presence.

“Hey!” Gabriel says sharply, turning toward Dean. “What are _you_ doing in here?”

“It’s fine,” Michael says before Dean can respond. “He can stay. At this point, I’d just like to see as much family as I can before… well, before.”

“Leave us,” Dean tells the guards inside the room.

They obey, and the servant who led them here departs as well, shutting the door behind him.

“Sit,” Michael says, gesturing to the other benches placed around the table.

Castiel sits opposite Michael, clasping her hands in her lap. Dean takes the bench on the right side of the table, Gabriel the left.

“Are you mad?” Gabriel hisses through clenched teeth. “You could have gone with me. You didn’t have anything to do with—”

“It doesn’t matter what I did or did not do. What does matter is what Lucifer did—or tried to do,” Michael interrupts. Looking over at Dean, he says, “I apologize. I refused to help my brother in his attempt to kill you, but I did not stop him from trying, either.”

Dean shakes his head. “It isn’t important anymore. He’s been punished. And I’m fine.”

Nodding, Michael turns his attention to Castiel. “I need to apologize to you, as well.”

“No,” Castiel says, shaking her head. “I was so sure that you intended to work with Lucifer this time as well. When I left last night, I felt certain that you’d already conceived a plan for today. I was wrong.”

Michael blinks, surprised. “You… you _believe_ me.”

If she hadn’t believed him before, the break in his voice at these words would have won her over, and the look on his face, the tears that brim in his eyes, are terribly bittersweet.

“I had hardly hoped for your forgiveness,” Michael says, a broken smile on his face. “I didn’t dare to even _begin_ to hope for understanding, but… well, you’ve always exceeded my expectations, ever since you were very small.”

Castiel meets her brother’s eyes, and it’s like looking into a mirror. “I just want to know why you did it. Don’t try to tell me it was for Father, or for—for _power_. You never cared about power, I know it.”

Michael seems to understand that Castiel is talking about his plan, the one that he hatched with their other brothers, and not his decision to let Lucifer do as he wished this morning. Licking his lips, he says, “I meant what I said last night, Elle. I would have been perfectly content spending the rest of my life in the home that Lucifer and I built for ourselves. When I first left Tarcaelius, I was angry. I wanted revenge—we both did. Naturally, we devised a strategy to eliminate Zachariah.

“The years dimmed my desire for revenge, for a return to power, but it did nothing to change Lucifer’s goals. Our communications with Gabriel and Raphael made it clear that they were prepared to stay the course as well. I was driven by a sense of justice. I—”

“I’m sorry— _justice?_ ” Dean breaks in. “How is _any_ of what you did to the two of us _just?_ ”

“I regret what had to be done,” Michael says, even as Castiel registers what Dean just said—two of us.

_Two of us_. Does he—has he realized the truth? She looks over at him, but he’s still watching Michael, listening to his response.

“I do not pretend that we did right by you, but I do believe that Zachariah’s punishment was just and necessary,” Michael finishes.

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t think you’re that much better than him. You almost killed your own sister just so you could kill your uncle. Sure, your uncle murdered your father, but killing more people won’t make things any better.”

“Actually, I’d say the world is better without Zachariah in it. I was pretty ecstatic when you sentenced him,” Gabriel says. “If I weren’t here now, I’d be out there, waiting for his feet to stop kicking.”

“Is that your answer, then?” Castiel asks, turning her attention back to Michael—her time with him is limited. Her future with Dean is far longer, and she’ll no doubt have time to make him answer as many questions as she wants. “You continued with the plan out of a sense of justice? Because I find that hard to believe. Had justice been your primary concern, you never would have used me the way you did.”

Michael clenches his jaw. “Are you going to force me to tell a lie, then?”

Castiel cannot come up with a reason why he would refuse to tell the truth, at this point. They may never see each other again. What else can he possibly be hiding?

“I don’t understand why you’re so hesitant, Michael,” Gabriel says with a frown. “You may as well tell her that you did it all for _him_. You’ve made it obvious enough.”

“Lucifer?” Castiel says, eyes trained attentively on Michael’s face. It’s completely unreadable, but she waits patiently for his composure to break. “Was it really because of Lucifer?”

“Not _only_ because of him,” Michael finally answers, ducking his head to avoid Castiel’s gaze.

“But mostly,” Castiel concludes. “Why are you so devoted to him? You certainly care far more about him than you do the rest of us.”

“Elle, quit prying,” Gabriel says with a sigh.

“No, I—I need to understand. I need to know why I suffered so much. If Michael had pulled out of this plot, you and Raphael would have followed, wouldn’t you?” she says to Gabriel, not bothering to wait for confirmation before continuing, “So I want him to explain. If he thinks he owes me an apology, then he owes me an explanation just as much.”

“Because if I’d stopped us from this course of action, he would have tried to assassinate Zachariah himself—without consideration for the crown or the throne or his own life, he would have gone to the capital to exact revenge,” Michael says.

“Then you should have let him,” Dean says angrily.

“Could you have let either of your brothers do that, if you were in my position?” Michael challenges.

“It doesn’t justify what you did instead,” Dean says.

“I didn’t say that it did,” Michael replies.

“No,” Castiel says, interrupting their quarrel. “That doesn’t make sense, Michael. You could have gone with him, if you were so concerned with his safety. And this course of action wasn’t much safer—you ended up riding out to war. So if Lucifer threatened you, what did he _really_ threaten you with?”

Michael clenches his jaw. “Suicide, all right? He said that he would die before he let Zachariah get away with it all. I could keep an eye on him, but I couldn’t be at his side at all times.”

“So it was a choice between his life and mine, was that it?” Castiel says. “To keep him alive, you chose to gamble away my life, my marriage, my happiness.”

“There’s no me without him,” Michael says forcefully, meeting Castiel’s eyes unflinchingly, and— _oh_. Her realization must show on her face, because Michael says, “It wasn’t a choice. It was never a choice.”

Castiel nods slowly. “I understand.”

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Gabriel pipes up. “I told you that she’d be fine with it, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I haven’t—I’m not… _fine_ with it, but I… I understand, now.”

It’s quiet for a long moment, and then Michael says, “If you’re satisfied, then I suppose this is goodbye.”

“You really won’t reconsider?” Gabriel says. “If Elle spoke for you, I’m sure Balthazar would—”

“I’ve made my decision,” Michael says firmly. Turning eyes on Dean, he says, “I hardly have the right to make this request, but… take care of my sister. I trust that she will fare better in your care than she ever did in mine.”

Dean only nods in response.

“Goodbye, Elle, Gabriel.”

“So you worry about Elle, but you don’t worry about me,” Gabriel says in a mock-affronted tone.

“I never worry about you,” Michael responds, smiling as he gets to his feet.

Gabriel stands as well, and Michael shifts over to give him a hug. Castiel stands next, as does Dean. When her brothers separate, Castiel steps over the bench and moves to put her arms around Michael’s middle, holding on tight. His arms come around her shoulders, and it really does feel like goodbye. Balthazar never said anything about limitations on visiting, but Castiel won’t often be in the Tarcaelian capital, anyway.

Then Michael draws back, and Castiel lets her arms fall to her sides, hands trembling slightly. And Dean is suddenly there, stepping in close behind her and grasping her hands in his, anchoring her.

“Go on, now,” Michael says. “We’re finished, here.”

“Goodbye, Michael,” Castiel manages.

“Bye, brother,” Gabriel adds.

Michael only smiles, and then Gabriel walks past Castiel and out the door. She lets her eyes linger on her brother for one last moment before turning to leave, hands pulling free of Dean’s as she does. His right hand almost immediately wraps around her left as they exit the room, and she’d ask him what he’s thinking—whether he’s changed his mind, and if so, why—but she’s too caught up in her emotions to deal with that right now.

She can’t forgive Michael for what he did to her, but she knows now. She’d thought that knowing would make things better, make them easier to accept, but it changes nothing. Understanding his motivations doesn’t change the fact that he used her.

Castiel had been so certain that she could sentence her brothers to death not so long ago, standing in the throne room. She knows she would have done it, had Balthazar not stepped in. Dean’s life was threatened, and after all of her effort warning her brothers not to do so, she would have felt that they deserved that ending. It was that kind of emotion, that kind of instinctive response, that pushed Michael to do the things he did.

“Cas, are you okay?” Dean asks, hand still tightly wrapped around hers, and she just nods, because she doesn’t think she has words right now. Not yet.

* * *

The walk back to their temporary quarters passes mostly in silence—Dean asks Cas if she’s all right, but she doesn’t really answer, and that’s an answer in and of itself, isn’t it? So he just follows her all the way to their chamber and perches next to her when she sits down on the bed.

“Cas,” Dean says, reaching for her.

“I need to know what you’re doing,” Cas says suddenly, eyes clearing up and focusing on Dean.

“What do you mean?”

“I just—what are you thinking? I need to know what is on your mind.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “Okay, I’ll tell you.”

But where does he even start? He can’t pinpoint the moment that he realized he still trusted her—that he’d just been waiting for her to prove herself to him. It’s been a long morning, emotionally fraught, especially for Cas, and it can’t be helping that Dean’s only going to be piling more on top of it all—

“Dean,” Cas says sharply, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Yes. Yes, sorry,” he says. “Look, Cas, I’m so sorry for not believing you. I should have trusted you.”

Dean expects his words to have a positive effect, but when he looks at Cas, she doesn’t look happy at all, and her expression is almost bored, as though she’d expected him to say this.

Finally, she says, “Dean, I have been through far too much this morning, and I don’t want to listen to any lies. Please just tell me: does this latest change of mind have anything to do with my—with our child?”

“What?” Dean spits out reflexively, surprised by the question. “No!” he protests immediately afterward. “No, of course not. Cas, I wouldn’t—”

“There is no need to get so defensive,” Cas interrupts quietly, eyes lowered. “I was only asking.”

“I just—I really should have believed you all along,” Dean says. “Sam and Adam knew pretty much from the beginning that you couldn’t have had anything to do with your brothers’ plan, but I… fuck, I was just so scared. It’s not an excuse, and it doesn’t make it okay. I was… I was a coward. I couldn’t trust you because I was too afraid that you really were working with your brothers. I couldn’t make myself that vulnerable again. Not when I almost fell apart the first time. I’m sorry, Cas. Please forgive me.”

Cas just stares at him when he’s finished with his speech, and he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know whether or not he’s allowed to touch her. But then Cas’s lips stretch upward, just slightly, and she says, only a little uncertainly, “You—you mean it.”

“I do. I really do,” Dean says fervently, and Cas breaks into laughter, practically throwing herself into his chest.

He falls back on the bed, arms coming up to wrap around Cas, and she presses light kisses along one cheekbone, over the bridge of his nose to his other cheekbone, before pulling back and just looking down at him, clearly relieved.

“Cas, I love you,” Dean says, and savors the little hitch in her breath, the slight dilation of her pupils, the way her mouth drops open just a tiny bit.

“Dean,” she starts, voice choked up, and god, Dean doesn’t even need to hear it.

He surges forward, closing the distance between their lips and bringing one hand up to hold the back of her head, just in case she gets any ideas about backing away.

Cas seems more than content with the arrangement though, twisting so that she’s properly straddling Dean’s lap without breaking the contact between their lips. She gives as good as she’s getting, and the kiss is sloppy, wet, makes Dean melt a little inside, and god, he’s just so, so lucky to have her.

* * *

Castiel almost doesn’t believe her ears when Dean says those three words. She’s stunned, barely manages to get his name out before he claims her lips, and it’s all right that she couldn’t respond to him, because he knows. He _knows_ , and he loves her, too.

She reaches down to push open his vest and shove his tunic upwards, because it’s been a long time since the last time they came together like this—three weeks, more or less—and she wants him, needs him. Taking the hint, Dean lifts his torso a little and shrugs out of his vest before yanking the tunic off over his head.

In the meantime, Castiel strips herself of her borrowed dress, lifting the heavy material over her head and casting it to the ground. She is completely bare underneath, not having brought any intimate garments with her from Laurentia and not wanting to borrow any from a stranger.

Dean’s eyes widen at the sight of her, hands coming up to caress her thighs, hips, waist. One hand lingers on her belly, and Castiel just knows that he’s thinking about the child growing inside her. She rests her hand over his, rolling her hips a little to stretch and flex the muscles underneath their hands.

“Is this…” Dean starts, but his voice seems to fail him. He wets his lips and starts over, “Is this okay?”

Castiel huffs, giving Dean a look that should make it clear what she thinks of that question. She’s already unclothed—how much clearer of a signal can she give him?

“I just wanted to make sure,” Dean says, hands moving back to rest on her hips, thumbs roving over the two points of bone.

Castiel puts her right hand between her legs, exploring her own anatomy in this place. Her fingers brush over that particularly sensitive nub of flesh, and she unconsciously lets out a small gasp, nearly falling back at the stimulation. She quickly puts her left hand behind herself, bracing it on Dean’s cloth-covered thigh. Sure that she won’t fall over now, she starts to play with herself, chasing that feeling.

Beneath her, Dean groans, and her eyes flick up to see that his attention is fixed on what her hand is doing, pupils wide, blown with desire. His grip has tightened on her hips, but when her hand stops moving, he looks up at her. She runs her tongue over her lips, agonizingly slowly, and it’s as though she can actually _see_ the want increase in her husband’s eyes. It’s a heady feeling, and she leans forward slightly, resting her hands on his bare abdomen and tilting her hips back to line herself up.

In position, she starts to move her hips, rubbing herself against Dean and wetting the fabric between them. She can feel how hard he is underneath her, how he’s straining to remain still, and she squeezes his forearms, drawing his attention upward.

“Cas,” he says tightly, hips jerking up slightly.

Castiel gasps at the unexpected pressure against her sex, and _yes_ , she wants more of that. “Dean, I want more,” she murmurs, unsure exactly how they should proceed. Dean has taken the lead in their carnal interactions thus far in their relationship, and she feels uncertain about being the instigator.

“How do you want me?” Dean asks, voice hoarse.

She licks her lips, considering his question. “I—this is good,” she says. “I just—I just want _you_.”

Dean nods and pulls his hands from her hips, indicating that she should lift herself up onto her knees. Castiel complies, and Dean fumbles with the ties of his trousers, freeing himself. Castiel stops him before he can remove his pants entirely, grasping his hard length in her hand.

He’s _hot_ , hotter than she’d expected. She glances up at him to gauge his reaction and sees his eyes shut tight, lower lip drawn between his teeth—it appears she is doing well.

She gives him a slow stroke, up and down, and he hisses, tense. Castiel pauses. “Are you all right?”

“Yes—god, yes,” he answers. “Don’t stop.”

Feeling slightly more bold, Castiel tightens her grip and strokes him again, and it’s very gratifying to feel the way Dean grows even harder under her touch, some liquid pearling from his tip.

But Castiel has waited long enough, dripping with want, so she lifts herself onto her knees again, positioning herself above him. She hovers there for one breathless moment before sinking down onto him, and _oh_ , it’s really been too long. He’s almost too wide, and it feels as though the downward slide takes forever, as though she’ll never take him in entirely.

“Oh,” Castiel whispers when she’s seated in Dean’s lap, so full that she can hardly stand it.

She clenches around the length inside her, and Dean groans, twitching beneath her. Castiel likes the sound, so she repeats the motion, still getting herself accustomed to the stretch, and this time Dean’s torso lifts from the bed slightly, back arching. Castiel braces her hands on Dean’s flat stomach and lifts up, but she doesn’t go very far before dropping back down—she can’t bring herself to let Dean out of her, now that he’s inside.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean mutters, hands reaching for her and finding her waist. “Move. Please.”

“Just—one moment,” Castiel says, closing her eyes. It makes her more aware of how stretched out she is, and she shifts her hips slightly to get comfortable.

One more breath, and then Castiel lifts herself up and lets gravity bring her down. Dean seems to sink even deeper into her than before, and they let out pleasured sounds simultaneously. Castiel slowly builds up a rhythm, up and down, up and down.

“Oh, Dean,” she pants. “God, Dean, you’re perfect.”

His hands slide upward, brushing against her taut nipples, and she can feel herself flushing. She pushes her chest forward, leaning into his touch, never slowing in the rising and falling of her body. Her thighs start to burn with exertion, but she can’t stop moving, spurred on by the unintentional sounds she keeps pulling from Dean’s lips.

Then Dean comes up to a sitting position, hands falling to Castiel’s hips and holding her down. She only struggles a little before stilling, chest heaving. Dean leans closer, and Castiel cups his cheeks even as he brings their lips together, soft catches of skin on skin, sharing air.

Dean starts moving under Castiel, small, incremental rolls of his hips that gradually— _too_ gradually—gain speed, but he feels so close to her that she can’t complain.

She pulls back slightly, hands falling to his shoulders, and sees that he loves her in the depths of his eyes, specks of gold shining out of a rich green, the color of the forest in springtime. He loves her in the soft touch just behind her ear, one hand sliding up into her short, unruly hair. He loves her in the firm hand resting on her lower back, pushing her down to meet each of his upward thrusts. He loves her in every roll of his hips, spearing into her and making her lose her breath.

He loves her in the not-quite-kiss that he presses against her lips, nose bumping into her cheek because they’re both growing uncoordinated as the pleasure mounts.

“I love you,” Castiel whispers, and this time, she intends to say it. This time, it hasn’t been drawn from her lips by anger or haste, and she sees the minute shift in his expression, feels the way he begins to move more quickly, frantically.

“God, Cas,” he says, nearly choking on the words when Castiel clenches down on him.

“I love you,” she repeats, louder, because she doesn’t know if Dean can see it in her the way she sees it in him, because she can’t possibly say it enough. Maybe if she’d said it more before her brothers carried out their scheme, Dean would have believed her.

Maybe they wouldn’t have suffered as much as they did.

Dean shoves into her, hard, and the sudden, unexpected jolt of pleasure steals her voice, leaving her to mouth the next _I love you_.

“I know, Cas—god, I know,” Dean whispers against her lips, and it’s like he’s breathing life into her, waking her from a long sleep.

She moans, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and closing her eyes, pressing her forehead against his as she falls into rhythm with him, grinding down onto him. The entire universe seems to slow, shrinking down until it only consists of the two of them. Their pace feels far too gentle, slowed by the sluggishness in her brain, like they’re moving through thick, sweet molasses, and it’s utterly, painfully perfect. Castiel can’t seem to stop Dean’s name from coming out of her mouth, slipping between her lips in breathy moans, soft sighs.

“Let go,” Dean murmurs, one hand gripping the back of her neck, the other still at her lower back. “Cas, give it up,” he breathes, tilting his pelvis _just so_ before the next powerful thrust—

And Castiel shatters, quaking in Dean’s arms as she reaches her release, a long wail escaping from her throat and filling the space between them. Dean shudders in her grasp but continues to drive into her, drawing out her climax, and Castiel clings to him, overwhelmed by sensation.

She regains full command over her faculties just as Dean begins to lose control over his, motions losing finesse and rhythm in favor of force and depth. Castiel feels drained, but she gathers her strength and moves with him, urging him on. She kisses his lips, first the top, then the bottom, feels the way he’s gasping, hands shifting to guide her hips.

He comes with her nickname on his lips, breathing it into her mouth as he finishes inside her.

Castiel keeps her arms around him, holding onto him as he slumps forward to rest his head on her shoulder. His breath comes out in puffs against her collarbone, hot and shuddering, and Castiel slowly runs one hand up and down the length of his back, trying to steady him.

“Cas,” he mumbles when he’s caught his breath, still leaning loose and heavy against her.

“Yes, Dean?” she responds when he doesn’t continue.

“We need to do that more often.”

Castiel can’t help it—she breaks into laughter, exhausted and relieved, and Dean laughs with her, falling back on the bed and pulling her down with him. They exchange a few nice, slow kisses, and Castiel still can’t quite believe that this is really happening, that they’re both really _fine_. Dean knows the truth—he realized it on his own. The misunderstanding is—is really over.

* * *

Dean isn’t sure how long they lie there, together, but eventually Cas shivers a little, so they disentangle themselves and crawl under the covers, removing any remaining clothing—for Dean that means his breeches and boots, and god, Cas had still been wearing her slippers, too. They lie on their sides, facing each other, and Dean can’t seem to stop looking at her, which would be embarrassing if she weren’t just as unable to take her eyes off him.

“What are you looking at?” Dean asks.

Cas smiles. “Everything.”

Dean’s chest feels ridiculously warm, and he scoots a little closer, pulling her in because any amount of distance between them is unacceptable, intolerable. He presses their foreheads together and closes his eyes, just feeling the warmth of her skin against his.

Cas’s hands slide down his chest, stopping near the stitches in his stomach, and she says, “Does it hurt?”

Dean had almost forgotten. “No,” he says.

“I should have been more careful,” Cas says, and he can hear the frown in the tone of her voice before he even opens his eyes.

“Cas,” he says, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at her, “I’ve gone right back into battle with a scratch like this before. Believe me when I say I’m fine.”

“Scratch?” Cas repeats, amusement warring with the worry in her eyes. “You have stitches, Dean. I’d argue that this was slightly more serious than a _scratch_.”

“Close enough,” Dean responds.

Cas sighs. “You have a callous disregard for your own safety. I understand that you feel… that you feel as though you need it, to fight alongside your soldiers and to put yourself at risk like this, but have you ever considered what the consequences would be if anything happened to you?”

“Cas—”

“I’m not just talking about me,” she goes on. “You must consider how Sam would feel, how Adam would feel. Think about what Jo and Ash would feel. Or Bobby or Ellen, or even Chuck, as terrified as he may be of you sometimes. Dean, you are important to a lot of people, and you need to remember that. You’ve said before that you couldn’t lose me. Well… they can’t lose you—they need you. _I_ need you.”

She pauses for breath, one hand coming up to rest on Dean’s cheek, and he can hardly believe that all the tenderness in her eyes, in this simple gesture, is real. God, how is _she_ real?

“I’m not asking you to stay off the battlefield entirely,” Cas continues, quieter. “I know that that’s impossible, given your burden and the way you choose to carry it. But I don’t ever want to see you standing there, wounded but refusing treatment out of stubbornness. I won’t allow it.”

Dean blinks a few times in the aftermath of her speech, trying his best to hold back tears because god, he’s not about to _cry_ about this. But he can’t bring himself to speak for a couple seconds, because he’s sure that his voice will shake, and once that happens, he’s screwed.

“So,” he finally gets out, looking Cas in the eyes, “you need me, huh?”

She nods solemnly. “Very much.”

“All right, then. I’ll take better care of myself next time.”

“If there _is_ a next time,” Cas is quick to add.

“If there’s a next time,” Dean parrots.

Cas smiles. “And if you don’t take better care of yourself, I’ll be there to make sure you do.”

“No,” Dean says, frowning. “This time was enough—you’re not coming with me if there’s another war.”

“Oh, so you’d leave me behind again?” Cas says, eyes challenging. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Cas—”

“In all seriousness,” Cas interrupts, and Dean’s suddenly reminded of the Cas he met when she first came to the castle—she’d been so polite with him, so quiet, and he’d definitely had the impression that she was _scared_ of him, worried that she’d say the wrong thing and piss him off. That Cas never would have interrupted him, and Dean is so relieved that he has the one right in front of him now.

Cas is still talking, Dean realizes. “Sorry,” he says suddenly, cutting her off midstream, because he hasn’t been listening, too lost in thought.

“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?” Cas says, brow furrowed. Without waiting for his response, she just goes back on topic and says, “I wouldn’t know what to do at home, without you there. You’re everything to me, Dean. Do you really think I would last long if the worst were to happen to you?”

“Don’t say that,” Dean says.

“I mean it,” Cas insists. “We need to come to an agreement on this.”

“Fine,” Dean says. “But if you come with me, you’ll come as an archer. No direct combat.”

Cas smiles again. “It’s endearing that you think you’ll actually be able to enforce that limitation on me.”

“You think you’ll be able to get around me then, do you?” Dean asks, trying and failing to hold back a smile of his own.

“Oh, yes,” Cas responds, leaning in to press their lips together. “I have my ways.”

“Mm,” Dean hums into the next kiss, eyes closed, “very effective.”

They laugh together, softly, and Dean feels unbelievably blessed to have this—he thought he’d never be able to reach this level of comfort with Cas again, yet… here they are.

It’s been quiet for several minutes when Cas speaks again. “I’m worried,” she says, sounding a bit farther away, and Dean opens his eyes and sees that she’s pulled back, put a couple inches between their faces. Though her eyes are still closed, her brow is drawn down, pinched.

“About what?”

“Balthazar,” she answers.

When she says nothing else, Dean prods, “What about him?”

Cas sighs and opens her eyes, rubbing her thumb back and forth along the arch of Dean’s cheekbone. “His reign isn’t secure,” she says. “The division of Tarcaelian army with the most survivors is currently under Virgil’s command because of the role he played in our campaign, and while he said nothing today during the crowning, he’s shown the most loyalty toward Raphael, and not Balthazar. There’s no telling what will happen when my brother returns.”

“You’re right,” Dean says, bringing one hand up to rest over Cas’s. “What do you think I should do about it? The war is over—it’s not as though I can declare war against a single general of the Tarcaelian army.”

Cas shakes her head minutely at the idea. “No, don’t be ridiculous,” she says dismissively. “We can’t use force, not at this point. Or—I suppose we could, but it’d be a shame to sully such a clean victory, especially when the people are so fond of you. I’d like to preserve your good name.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Dean comments, smiling. He pulls her hand away from his face and kisses the back of it. “You must have a plan already. Let me hear it.”

“I think you should talk to Balthazar,” Cas says. “Advise him to have a private meeting with Virgil about his loyalties. It’s best to be frank about these matters.”

“I can do that,” Dean says.

“Tell him to make sure Virgil knows that it’s in his best interest to pledge allegiance to him, rather than to Raphael,” Cas continues. “He should point out that he’s the king now, with your full support, so if anything happens to him, you will come to his aid. If Virgil is smart, he’ll pledge allegiance to Balthazar and sever his connection to Raphael—he wouldn’t want to face the wrath of the Laurentian army, not with the Tarcaelian army in its current state. And if he doesn’t know what’s best for him… well, I suppose we could stay here for a few days, just to monitor his actions. If you don’t mind.”

God, Dean thinks, chuckling, she really _would_ have made a good king. Michael may have lied about a lot of things, but this bit turned out to be remarkably true.

“What’s so funny?” Cas asks.

“Nothing. I’ll talk to Balthazar tonight,” Dean says, smiling.

“Wait—no, you need to let him be alone tonight,” Cas says. “Raphael won’t return overnight, anyway, so speaking with him tomorrow morning will still leave him with plenty of time to speak with Virgil.”

“Why does he have to be alone tonight?” Dean asks. “Another Tarcaelian tradition?”

Cas sighs. “No, just human nature. He’ll have just overseen his own father’s hanging,” she says quietly. “I would certainly want to be left alone. And I certainly wouldn’t want to see the man who laid down the sentence, so soon after the execution.”

“Oh. Right,” Dean says. “Then maybe it’d be better for you to talk to him about it.”

“Definitely not. That’d be completely inappropriate.”

“What? Why?”

“Women aren’t to concern themselves with matters of state in Tarcaelius. If anyone overheard the content of our talk, no one would take my suggestions seriously, and they’d think less of Balthazar if he did,” Cas explains.

“Well that’s… bullshit,” Dean says.

Cas laughs. “Yes, I know. But it’s the way things are, and we won’t be able to change the way people think over the course of a few days. Give Balthazar tonight to grieve, and then speak to him tomorrow morning. You’ll find that he can keep his emotions separate from affairs of state.”

“I believe you.”

“Good,” Cas says. “Now, tell me: what were you laughing about?”

“It was nothing,” Dean says.

“Then you can tell me.”

Dean sighs. “You just don’t give up, do you?” Cas only shakes her head, so Dean says, “When you were… when I thought you were dying, Michael came in and sat with me for a while. He told me some things about your childhood. Now, I don’t know if any of it was even true, but—”

“I’ll wager it was all true,” Cas interrupts, frowning. “I’m under the impression that they—that they were very much aware of the nature of our attachment to each other. Giving you anecdotes of my childhood would have been ideal for increasing your sense of loss when I passed.”

Dean stares at her. “You’re a little scary sometimes, y’know that?”

Cas just shakes her head and scoots in closer. “Continue—you’ve yet to tell me what was so funny.”

“Well,” Dean says, pressing their foreheads together again, “one of the things he told me was that your father once said you would have been a better king than any of your brothers. And I was just noticing how true that was, in the way you wanted me to handle the situation with Balthazar.”

It’s silent for a long moment, and when Dean pulls back slightly, Cas’s eyes are closed. But there’s the hint of moisture in her dark lashes, and Dean moves his hand to her shoulder, sliding it back to rub between her shoulder blades.

“That wasn’t very funny,” Cas finally decides, and when she opens her eyes, they’re watery. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Aw, c’mere,” Dean says, shifting forward to pull her completely into his embrace. Her arms go around him, too, and she ducks her head under his chin. “For what it’s worth, I totally agree,” he says. “Hell, you’d make a better king than me, that’s for sure. Maybe when we return to Laurentia, we should gather all the nobles and announce a regime change. You’ll be the king, and I’ll be your trophy wife.”

The suggestion makes them both burst into laughter, shaking together, and Dean thinks he would give anything for them to stay like this forever.

“That would be absolutely ridiculous,” Cas says.

“Only a little,” Dean answers.

“How ridiculous would it be if we—” Cas starts, but she’s interrupted by a faint growling sound, and Dean smiles ruefully. “Oh, we skipped breakfast, today,” Cas observes. “What would you like for dinner?”

“Well,” he says, “if it isn’t too much trouble, it’s been almost a month since I had any of your cooking.”

“Ah, so you intend to put me to work,” Cas says.

“Would it help if I said please?”

“It most certainly would,” Cas replies. “But you’d better not take advantage of my kindness and make me cook for you all the time. I might get resentful and poison you.”

“You’d never,” Dean says, amused. “You need me, remember?”

“Oh, drat,” Cas says with a soft smile. “I suppose I’ll just have to find another way to punish you, when we get home.”

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” Dean agrees easily. He accepts Cas’s quick peck to the lips and absently watches her climb out of bed and get dressed again. She says something about returning with food soon, and Dean just nods, barely even registering the closing of the door.

_When we get home_ , Cas had said, without hesitation, because that’s what Laurentia is, to her—home.

He likes the sound of that.


	25. Epilogue

“Tiger!”

Castiel smiles. “That’s right. And do we have any tigers in the woods behind the castle?”

“Nope,” Emmanuel says, and he sounds disappointed. “Mama, where are the tigers if they’re not behind the castle?”

“Far, far from here,” Castiel responds. “Mama’s never seen one, either.”

Emmanuel’s eyes go wide—after all, Castiel is the source of all information in his universe, and if she doesn’t know something, it obviously doesn’t exist. So it isn’t a surprise when he asks, “But how do you know they’re real?”

“Why don’t you ask your Uncle Chuck?” Castiel says, looking over at the historian. They’re seated across his desk from him in the library—Dean may have cleared out a room for Castiel’s personal use as a study, but she likes bringing Emmanuel here because the cluttered space is surprisingly cozy.

Chuck starts a little at the mention of his own name and rubs his neck nervously as Emmanuel looks over at him. “Yes, uh, I’ve seen a tiger before,” Chuck says. “It was really, really big.”

“Bigger than _me?_ ” Emmanuel asks.

“Much bigger than you,” Chuck answers.

Then there’s a rap on the open door to Chuck’s office, and Castiel turns her head to see Inias and Meg standing in the opening.

“Is it suppertime already?” Castiel asks, frowning. It feels as though they only just finished dinner.

“No, not yet,” Inias replies stiffly.

“You have a visitor,” Meg says.

A visitor? That’s strange—Castiel never gets visitors. “Very well,” she says, lifting Emmanuel from her lap and setting him on the ground. He holds onto the material of her dress as she gets up, and she coaxes his hand open. “Stay here with Inias, okay? He’ll keep going.”

“But Mama—”

“Don’t you want to know what comes after the tiger?”

Emmanuel pouts. “But I _already_ know what comes after the tiger.”

The boy isn’t lying; this is not the first time Castiel has gone through this book of pictures with him. So Castiel squats down and cups her son’s small face in her hands. “You’re not scared to be without Mama, are you?”

Emmanuel shakes his head rapidly. “I’m not scared of anything! Not even tigers!”

“That’s right, Emmanuel,” Castiel says. “You’re a brave boy. If Mama’s not back here by suppertime, Inias will take you, all right? I’ll meet you in the dining hall.”

“Promise?”

Castiel smiles. “I promise.”

“Okay, then.”

“That’s a good boy,” Castiel says, leaning forward to kiss his forehead before standing and going toward the door.

Inias moves to take the seat she just vacated, lifting Emmanuel up onto his lap. “Ooh, you’re getting heavy, aren’t you?” he says.

“Come,” Castiel says to Meg, walking out of the office and into the library. “Who is it?”

Meg shakes her head. “It’d be better not to say.”

Very suspicious, Castiel thinks. It’s been four years since the last Laurentian-Tarcaelian war—since her marriage with Dean very nearly collapsed—and they haven’t had trouble in all this time. Castiel had thought that the worst was behind them, but she supposes that remains to be seen.

She tries to withhold judgment until she actually sees her visitor; it won’t do to worry herself unnecessarily if it turns out to be anyone else. But Meg takes her on the route to the kitchens, and Castiel is almost certain she already knows who has come to see her.

Sure enough, in the kitchen, Meg leads Castiel to one of the storage rooms and holds the door open for her. “I’ll stand guard outside, keep everyone else out,” she says.

Castiel sighs and enters.

“You look well,” Gabriel says, emerging from behind a stack of boxes as soon as the door is closed.

“That’s because I _am_ well,” Castiel says. “Are you here to change that?”

Gabriel looks hurt at the question. “Elle, are you still—”

“Angry that you nearly ruined my life here?” Castiel finishes for him. She pauses, then, because she isn’t sure. She hasn’t thought much of her brothers, their pain at their betrayal fading a little with each passing year. It’s helped that she has had Emmanuel here, to occupy her time and brighten her days.

Gabriel must take her silence for an affirmative, because he ducks his head and says, “I’m sorry. I never should have come here. I knew it wouldn’t be a good idea, but I just… I wanted to come back.”

“Come back?” Castiel repeats. “What do you mean?”

“It… it doesn’t matter,” Gabriel says, shaking his head and starting toward the door. “It’s not possible, anyway. I’ll leave now. I didn’t want to… to trouble you.”

“Wait,” Castiel says, moving into his path. “Do you mean to say that you… wanted to stay here?”

“Stupid, right?”

“Gabriel—”

“I mean, after everything that we did to you, and to Dean, god. I don’t think I’d be able to forgive me either, if I were you.”

“Stop,” Castiel says firmly. “Just—stop talking.”

Gabriel clenches his jaw but holds his tongue, eyes fixed over Castiel’s shoulder—looking at the door, probably.

“Gabriel, you are my brother, and I love you,” Castiel says quietly, and his attention instantly shifts away from the door and onto Castiel, eyes wide. “I wish I’d had more opportunities to tell you that. But it’s not my place to apologize, and I don’t want to hear any more apologies from you, either. I won’t lie—I was angry with you for a very long time. Dean is my husband, and I will never care for another person as much as I do him. If the damage you’d caused had been permanent, I’m certain I would never have been able to forgive you.

“But we’re all right now. Dean and I are happy, and it’s so, so difficult for me to make myself hate you. I yearned for you to return—for _all_ of you to return—for _years_ , Gabriel. Do you really think it’s so easy for me to set aside how much I cared for you?”

“Then…” Gabriel says, an uncertain, hopeful look on his features.

“I forgive you,” Castiel says, and her brother breaks into a smile. “But I can’t let you stay.”

Gabriel’s face falls. “Why—”

“I can forgive you for your involvement, but I doubt Dean could. And even if he could, he wouldn’t want you to be so near us anymore. I… I hope you understand,” Castiel explains.

“Yes,” Gabriel says. “You’re right. I’ve already—I’ve already gotten your forgiveness. It’s more than I expected, sneaking in like this to see you. Thank you, Elle.”

Castiel manages a small smile. “Are you going to come over here or not?”

Gabriel laughs shakily and steps closer, putting his arms around her. Castiel returns the embrace for a moment before pulling back, and Gabriel looks a lot happier when she looks up at him.

“So, is there uh, any chance I can meet my nephew? Or niece?”

“His name is Emmanuel,” Castiel says. “And I think I should talk to Dean about it, first.”

Gabriel nods. “Yeah, you probably should,” he concedes, disappointment clear in his tone. “Well, I’m staying at an inn for now, in the city. It’s called Elysian Fields. I’d… I’d love to see you again, before I go.”

“Where do you plan to go?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says. “I’ve traveled to a number of different places in the time since we were last together, but none of them have quite appealed to me as much as… well, here.”

“I’m certain you’ll find a place for yourself, eventually,” Castiel says.

Gabriel just nods again. Then he asks, “Have you had any word from Raphael? I haven’t seen him since he returned to the capital and had his sentence read to him.”

“No,” Castiel answers.

Raphael hadn’t been happy about his exile, but he hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Dean had sent one of his scouts to watch over his every move. They’d learned that Raphael had gone to Virgil, but, as Castiel had hoped, Virgil had turned her brother away, remaining staunch in his support of Balthazar.

“I hope he’s all right, wherever he is,” Gabriel says.

“Have you been looking for him?”

“Not really.” After a pause, Gabriel says, “I have to admit I’m surprised that you allowed Meg to remain so close to you.”

“She’s been like a sister to me for my whole life,” Castiel says. “And she was technically only acting under orders.”

“So she wasn’t as guilty as we were. I see,” Gabriel says. With a sigh, he says, “Well, I should be going, then. I only managed to get in because Jesse recognized me and chose to do me a favor. I shouldn’t get him in trouble.”

“When do you leave the capital?”

“In a week, perhaps.”

“I’ll go to see you, then. If Dean allows it, I’ll bring Emmanuel along,” Castiel says.

“That would… I’d be very grateful,” Gabriel says, smiling. “Bye, Elle.”

“Goodbye for now.”

They share another quick hug, and then Castiel leaves the storage room. She leaves Meg there with Gabriel to help him out of the castle and returns to the library on her own to rejoin her son.

* * *

When Castiel returns from putting Emmanuel to bed, the candles are already almost all extinguished in her bedchamber, and Dean is just a lump on the bed. The only remaining light comes from one flickering candle on the desk, and Castiel undresses for the night before moving to blow it out. She crawls into bed, expecting Dean to be asleep, but as soon as she’s settled in next to him, he turns toward her.

“I was waiting for you,” he says.

“Were you?” Castiel responds, turning onto her side as well. She can hardly make out his features, her eyes still adjusting to the dark. “You could have come to Emmanuel’s room.”

“Yes, I could have,” Dean concedes, “but I was tired. He has too much energy for me to keep up with.”

Castiel laughs. “Is that so, old man?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I’m afraid I’m not far from the grave, my dear.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel says. “Since you’re awake, I do have something to discuss with you.”

“Okay,” Dean says expectantly, one hand resting over Castiel’s side and sliding around to the small of her back to pull her a little closer.

“Gabriel came to see me today,” Castiel says. Dean stiffens a little but doesn’t speak, so Castiel continues, “He wanted to return to the castle here. I assume he wanted to resume his position in the kitchens. But I told him that it’d be best for him to stay away from here.”

Dean’s eyes are closed now, and he says, “Did he want anything else? Did he say anything about—”

“No. He only asked if I had any news of Raphael, and I told him that I didn’t,” Castiel replies. Then she says, gently, “He did ask for permission to meet his nephew.”

“I guess it’s not an unreasonable request,” Dean says, opening his eyes again.

“So you’ll allow it?” Castiel asks.

“Only for an hour,” Dean says. “I don’t want to see him, but I want you to bring Ash, Inias, and Samandriel with you. They’re to be present the entire time.”

“Dean, he wouldn’t harm his own nephew.”

Dean scoffs. “After what he was able to do to us—to you? I wouldn’t put it past him. Cas, just go with me on this.”

“Of course,” Castiel says.

A moment later, Dean says, “How was it? Seeing him again, I mean.”

“Strange. I hadn’t expected to see him again,” Castiel confides.

“Y’know, he could stay in the capital,” Dean says, maybe a little reluctantly. “I don’t want him in the castle, but he can stay in the city. You’d be able to see him now and then.”

Castiel smiles. “I’ll suggest it to him, then. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m not happy he’s back,” Dean says.

Castiel shifts closer, holding onto Dean’s torso and tangling their legs together. “All the more reason to thank you,” she replies, “for allowing him to stay, even though you don’t like his presence.”

Dean huffs. “You’re fishing, aren’t you? You just want me to say that it’s all for you.”

“I don’t need to fish for confirmation,” Castiel says. “I already know that you do everything for me.”

Dean grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but he responds to her kisses readily enough.

* * *

It’s been a long time since Dean went out for a walk like this, late at night. He looks up at the night sky—the bits of it that he can see between the trees, at least—and takes a deep breath of fresh air. Summer nights are great; the breeze makes the air nice and cool, but the lingering heat of the day keeps it from getting too cold outside.

“Dean, come on,” Cas says from up ahead.

Dean smiles and jogs to catch up, taking the hand that Cas holds out to him. “Where are we going?”

“To see the stars,” Cas replies, swinging their hands together a little as she leads him farther into the forest.

He hasn’t been back here in a while, too busy running the country to come back to the royal preserve and relax. But Cas insisted that he take two days to accompany her on a hunting trip, just in the woods behind the castle; they wouldn’t even have to bring their horses along. When Dean said he wasn’t sure, Cas went straight to Sam, who suggested that they bring Ash and Inias for protection. Adam had immediately volunteered to take Emmanuel into his wing of the castle while they were gone.

So they packed some blankets and a change of clothes each, brought along some food, and headed out, Ash and Inias in tow. The servants aren’t with them now, though—Cas persuaded Dean into leaving them with the tents and going on a walk.

“Here,” Cas decides, stopping at the edge of a clearing.

Dean looks up, and they can definitely see a lot more of the sky from here. The moon is almost perfectly round tonight and seems brighter than usual—Cas picked a good time to come out here. Dean wouldn’t be surprised if she somehow predicted the weather before choosing to make the trip.

“It’s a good spot,” he comments.

“Of course,” Cas responds, taking the sack that Dean’s been carrying over one shoulder. She removes the bedroll from it and spreads it over the ground, pressing down to even it out.

“Did you actually want to sleep here, tonight?” Dean asks as Cas sets the pillow down on one end of the bedroll and goes about tugging a blanket from the sack.

“Would that be a problem?” Cas asks.

“No, not at all,” Dean answers.

He removes his tunic and sits down on the bedroll, reaching for the bag so that he can put his shirt inside. When he looks up, he sees that Cas has wandered toward the middle of the clearing, still looking up at the sky.

“Come back,” Dean says, patting the spot beside him.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Cas says quietly.

“Yes. It’s just as beautiful from over here,” Dean says pointedly. Cas laughs but doesn’t come any closer, and Dean fakes a sigh. “You know, I thought you were leading me out here so that we could be alone together. But if you just wanted to be on your own, you could have left me with the servants.”

“Is that bitterness I hear?” Cas asks lightly, turning her back entirely so that Dean can only see the back of her head.

“Come on, Cas. Don’t tease me,” Dean says.

She turns toward him then, a thoughtful look on her face. “Do you think Emmanuel is all right?”

“I’m sure he’s fine. He loves staying with Adam. And Anna will be with him,” Dean answers reassuringly. Still, it’s the first time Dean and Cas have both left the castle at the same time since Emmanuel was born, so it makes sense for her to be concerned.

Cas smiles—okay, maybe she isn’t concerned. “Yes, he’s getting a little more mature, now.”

“Too mature,” Dean says, frowning. “Three-year-olds aren’t supposed to be mature. It’s all your fault.”

Cas laughs. “He’ll be four in less than three months, Dean. And in any case, I believe that it’s a good thing for our firstborn to be a little more mature than the rest.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but then his mind catches up with him, and— _firstborn_. He raises his eyebrows at Cas in a silent query, and she just looks up at the sky again.

“I think Emmanuel might benefit from having a little brother to look after. Don’t you?” she says.

“You want to try for another one?” Dean asks, surprised. Cas has been keeping track of her monthly cycle to avoid getting pregnant, and while Dean’s always known he wanted multiple children, he wasn’t entirely sure what Cas wanted, especially after going through Emmanuel’s birth. God, _Dean_ had been a bit traumatized coming out of that, let alone Cas—

“Yes,” she says, cutting through Dean’s thoughts. “I think it’s about time,” she continues.

“In that case, I think I’d rather have a baby girl this time,” Dean says.

“A girl would be perfectly acceptable,” Cas says.

“Boy or girl, you’re going to have to come a little closer, Cas. I know I’m awesome, but I can’t exactly work my magic from here,” Dean says, not even bothering to hold back a grin.

Cas takes a few steps toward him before turning her head to face him, and the way her eyes reflect the moonlight is mesmerizing, giving her an ethereal, otherworldly look. Dean is transfixed, barely even _breathing_. He’s so focused on her eyes, in fact, that he doesn’t notice that she’s removing her clothing until she’s already pushing her dress off her hips, letting the relatively heavy material fall to the ground.

Her riding coat is a few feet behind her.

Dean swallows hard as he watches her push down the straps of her chemise, standing right beside the bedroll as she lets the material fall, baring herself to his eyes. Dean has seen loose women performing before, has seen them remove complicated costumes with skilled maneuvers specifically choreographed to attract male attention, but not one of them measures up to Cas.

It’s her way of holding herself, something dignified and pure about her, Dean thinks as she goes to her knees beside him, one hand coming up to rest on his face. He knows exactly what she looks and sounds like in the throes of passion, yet she still seems pristine, untouched. Pure as snow.

Cas presses one hand to his chest, and he lets himself be pushed onto his back, eyes locked with hers. She goes down with him, lying on her side and propping herself up on one elbow. Her free hand—the one on his chest—slides down, down, down until it’s cupping him where he’s hardening in his trousers.

“Are we trying today, then?” Dean asks, trying for a cocky grin.

“No,” Cas says with a frown, a little pinch appearing between her eyebrows. “I’m not at the right time in my cycle. I shouldn’t be ovulating for another week.”

“Well, it can’t hurt to practice, can it?” Dean says, bucking up a little into her touch.

Cas licks her lips, slow and deliberate, and says, “I’ve read about a position that is ideal for achieving impregnation. Perhaps we should try it, for practice.”

“Okay. What do I need to do?”

Cas shifts away from Dean, just slightly, and gets onto her hands and knees. Then, casting a glance at Dean to make sure that he’s watching, she slowly lowers her torso to the bedroll, and Dean can’t help but groan at the image she makes, the sensual, delicate arch of her back.

“Fuck, Cas,” he gets out, voice hoarse.

“Is this—too much?” she asks, the first hint of uncertainty creeping into her voice.

“No,” Dean is quick to reply, reaching out to rest a hand on the back of her neck, tracing her spine as it curves upward. “No, it’s—it’s—”

Cas’s voice drops, husky and seductive, when she says, “Then what are you waiting for?”

“Jesus, Cas. Give me a minute,” Dean says as his hand reaches the base of her spine. He shifts to the edge of the bedroll and kicks off his boots.

“Dean,” Cas says breathlessly, and there’s no reason for her to sound like that unless—

Dean turns to look at her and _feels_ his mind blanking out, blood rushing from his head to his groin, because Cas’s hands getting started between her legs, one hand playing at her entrance while the other rubs her clit in tiny circles.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas gets out, plaintive, and right, Dean’s supposed to be part of this picture.

He removes his breeches as fast as he can, casting them aside and moving to kneel behind her, hands rubbing her round bottom. He pulls her hands away and places them flat on the bedroll, and she whines a little at the loss of stimulation. Dean brushes the insides of her thighs as he pulls his hands back and taps them gently, prompting her to spread wider. She obeys easily, arching her back even farther.

“Christ, Cas,” Dean breathes, leaning down because she’s so wet, and he _has_ to taste her—he can’t not.

His tongue circles her entrance, and she jerks at the touch, thighs shuddering. She tastes _clean_ , more so than usual, and Dean can’t help but laugh, pulling away.

“You prepared for this, didn’t you?” he says, mock-accusing.

“Yes,” Cas says impatiently, rolling her hips a little. “Now _do_ something about it.”

In lieu of a response, Dean leans forward again and flicks her clit with the tip of his tongue. She lets out a startled gasp, so Dean does it again and again, teasing her with just a hint of more pressure without ever giving it to her.

“Do more—Dean, _please_ ,” she implores him, voice shaking.

Dean obliges, bringing his lips together around her clit and sucking gently. He slides a finger into her, just to feel how ready she is for him, and finds her silky soft and so, so wet. Cas moans wordlessly, wantonly, and Dean feels like he’s slipping away, lost in her cries, in the flexing of her muscles around his finger, in the taste of her arousal against his tongue when he tilts his head upward to lick around his knuckle.

He brings her off single-mindedly, drinking in her pleased sighs and running his free hand over the small of her back as she trembles through her peak.

“God, Cas,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her tailbone and starting to follow her spine upward with his lips, “you are absolutely, incredibly beautiful. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“I don’t know,” Cas says breathlessly. “Perhaps you were a saint in another life.”

“I must’ve been,” Dean chuckles, lips lingering at the base of her neck for a moment. He shifts closer to kiss her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “I love you,” he murmurs.

She smiles, still a little pleasure-drunk, and says, “As you should.”

Dean reaches one hand down to line himself up with her entrance, because god, he doesn’t want to wait another second. Still, he hesitates, looking to her for a sign. She’s still smiling faintly, eyes closed, but then one of her hands clutches at his thigh, pulling at him, and yeah, that’s good enough for him.

He shoves his hips forward, entering her in one quick thrust, and his eyes roll back in his head, because _Jesus_ , she’s tight, slick and molten around him. He pulls back slightly and presses in farther, drawing a breathy sigh from Cas’s lips. She clenches down around him, and he grunts involuntarily, thrusting until he’s all the way in, the fronts of his thighs pressed against the backs of hers.

“Dean,” she gasps, eyes squeezed shut, and Dean grabs her right hand, bringing it up to rest by her head and twining their fingers together.

“All right?” Dean asks, leaning down to wrap his left arm around her middle and pull her up against him, because he wants to be as close to her as humanly possible.

“Yes,” Cas says, nodding. “Move, Dean, please.”

“Yeah,” Dean exhales, starting to roll his hips. “Yeah—yes, fuck,” he grunts, picking up speed because Cas is moaning with each thrust, and Dean thinks he could probably get off on the sound alone.

It’s been a while since they had sex, and Dean doesn’t think he’s going to last very long, especially in this position—honestly, it’s like they’re _animals_ , and Dean doesn’t know what about that is so hot, just that it _is_. So he slides the hand that’s on Cas’s belly downwards, teasing her by making the trip nice and slow, upping the anticipation.

“Oh, please,” Cas whimpers when he stops his hand just shy of where she needs it, inches from the point where they’re connected, where Dean’s still fucking her. “Please, Dean, touch me.”

Dean presses kisses all up and down the length of her neck, continuing to pump steadily in and out of her, but keeps his hand still. Cas jolts forward just slightly with each movement, pleas blending into wordless cries when Dean finally brings his hand the rest of the way down and swipes his fingers across her clit. Cas always comes more easily after the first time, so it’s only about a minute before she’s seizing up, crying out as she gushes around him.

Dean just keeps pushing his dick into her, trying to extend her pleasure as long as he can.

Her cries soften a little eventually, and he stills inside her, feeling the way she’s gone nearly boneless under him. Straightening up, Dean puts his hands on her hips and starts really going for it, yanking her back to meet each forward thrust.

“Oh, _god_ , _Dean_ —” she moans, words slurred, hands twitching at her sides, and she must be oversensitive by now, but Dean’s coaxed three orgasms out of her before, and he can do it again.

He looks down, mesmerized by the visual of his cock disappearing into her and emerging coated with her juices, a sight he’ll never tire of. “Fuck, Cas,” he groans, tilting her hips just a little.

The new angle clearly agrees with her, because the next time he fucks into her, she makes a shrill, startled sound, followed by a hoarse _yes_ that has Dean’s hips snapping forward again before he can even think about it.

Less than a dozen thrusts later, Cas tightens around him, a long, ragged moan breaking out of her mouth, and Dean follows her over the edge, shoving into her once more and emptying himself inside her.

“Oh, holy…” Dean starts, but his voice breaks, and he lets the words trail off, unsure what he was about to say anyway. He pulls out of her and manages to shift a little to the side before lowering himself to the bedroll, spent.

Cas stays in that position for a moment longer before letting her legs slide out from under her, scooting over to drape herself partially over Dean’s chest. “That,” she says, chest still heaving where it’s pressed against his, “was amazing.”

“ _You_ are amazing,” Dean returns, and Cas thumps a fist on his chest.

They’re silent for a long while, long after their breathing has returned to normal, and Dean is content to lie here, one hand stroking up and down Cas’s spine.

Then Cas moves away, and Dean asks, “Are we going back to the tent tonight?”

“No,” Cas answers immediately, reaching over Dean to grab the blanket and unfold it.

Dean frowns, because Cas has already gotten what she wanted tonight, hasn’t she? Unless there’s something else planned that she hasn’t told him. “Cas?” he says.

“I really did want to sleep under the stars,” Cas insists, throwing the blanket over their legs before lying down again. Dean finishes tugging the cover up over them both, waiting for her to explain. A moment later, she gives in and says, “I also wanted to give them some more time together, free of obligations.”

Ah. Ash and Inias. He and Cas have discussed this before—apparently she found out before Dean did, which was totally not fair but completely unsurprising. The two men have been dancing around each other for… for going on four years now, and maybe some extra time out here would help them along.

“Thoughtful,” Dean comments.

“I’m always thoughtful,” Cas responds, moving her hand from Dean’s chest up to his cheek. She props herself up on one arm and leans down to kiss him.

“You know, there is one thing that’s been on my mind for a while,” Dean says as she pulls back.

Hovering over him, Cas says, “What is it?”

“I’ve just been thinking about Sam and Adam,” he answers. “Sam’s all set to propose marriage to the daughter of the Earl of Morara.”

“Jessica?” Cas asks, and when Dean nods, she says, “It’s about time. He’s been courting her for some time, hasn’t he?”

Dean chuckles. “Yes, he has.”

“They’re good for each other,” Cas says, shifting back down to rest her head on Dean’s shoulder. Then she asks, “And Adam?”

But Dean has long become well-versed in all of Cas’s subtleties, so he hears the careful way she’s speaking and sighs, shaking his head. “You know already, don’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Cas says, but Dean can practically hear her smiling.

“It’s why you’ve been sending Anna with Emmanuel whenever he goes to stay with Adam, isn’t it?” Dean says, making the connection. “I thought you were doing it so that he’d have a familiar face with him, but now that I think about it, he’s already familiar with Adam and Kate.”

Cas’s hand slips down to curve around the side of Dean’s neck, and she says, “I was wondering when you’d finally catch on to Adam’s feelings.” Dean hesitates before responding, and Cas suddenly says, “ _Oh_. He had to tell you, didn’t he?”

“I’ve been busy,” Dean hedges, and Cas laughs. “He pulled me aside a few weeks ago and said that he wanted to court Anna, but he wasn’t sure whether or not you’d be all right with it.”

“He could have talked to me directly,” Cas says.

“I think he was nervous. Either way, give him an answer soon, will you?”

“I’ll give him my blessing when I see him tomorrow, then,” she says. “Anna seems to have a fairly high opinion of him, but I can’t answer for her—I doubt he’d take my word for it, anyway.”

“You’re perfect,” is the only thing Dean can think to say in response, because he feels so, so lucky to have a wife who understands him and his family so well. “I don’t think I’ve said it enough. Come up here,” he adds, pulling at her shoulder a little.

Cas shifts so that she’s lying entirely on top of Dean, thighs on either side of his. She ruffles his hair, smiling down at him, and Dean reaches up to cup the back of her head, pulling her down into a kiss. She hums into his lips, soft, and melts against him, warm and relaxed.

“I love you,” Dean says when they part for breath.

“I love you more,” Cas answers, smiling.

Grinning right back, Dean proclaims, “That’s not possible.”

“That’s what _you_ think,” Cas shoots back, and Dean sighs. He lets Cas have a moment of triumph before rolling her onto her back and ducking his head to kiss her quiet.

* * *

Ever since they returned from the war against Tarcaelius, Dean has made it a point to visit his parents at least once every three months. Castiel has accompanied him each time. Sometimes they were joined by Sam or Adam—or both, on special occasions.

Today is one such occasion—it’s Emmanuel’s fourth birthday, so Sam and Adam are both here. Each has brought his intended, so that the visiting party numbers seven rather than the usual five.

Castiel thinks that this time, Emmanuel might finally understand why they’re here; they brought him on his first three birthdays, but he was not old enough to know what was happening. He jabbers on and on about an adventure he wants to go on when he’s older, so that he’ll be able to see tigers and elephants and really, really big snakes.

“Aren’t you afraid the snakes will swallow you whole?” Castiel asks as she climbs out of the carriage and holds out her hands to help Emmanuel down—the disadvantage of traveling with her young son is that she cannot ride, but it’s a small sacrifice to make in exchange for the joy he brings her.

“Nope! Uncle Benny will eat them first,” he declares as he practically jumps into Castiel’s arms.

“Your Uncle Benny eats snakes? Why haven’t I heard of this?” Castiel asks.

“It’s a _secret_ ,” Emmanuel says, wiggling a little in Castiel’s arms because he’s impatient to be put down.

Castiel obliges, setting him down on the ground and letting him run over to Adam, who has just hopped down from the driver’s seat out front.

“He’s so energetic,” Jessica comments as she emerges from the carriage and steps down next to Castiel. “I don’t know how you keep up with him.”

“He gets it from his father,” Castiel answers just as two large hands wrap around her waist from behind.

“I resent that,” Dean says, and Castiel turns her head in time to receive a quick kiss on the lips.

“Hello,” she says, smiling.

“I have it on good authority that _you_ were quite a handful when you were little,” Dean says, coming to stand next to her. He looks up at Jessica and Anna, who has just come out of the carriage, and says, “If Emmanuel’s a troublemaker, it’s her fault as much as it is mine.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Jessica says. “The queen is very composed.”

“She is,” Anna agrees.

Dean laughs. “Of course they’re all on your side.”

“Of course,” Castiel echoes. “I’m not Queen for nothing.”

Adam approaches, bouncing Emmanuel on his hip. “Are you coming?” he asks as Emmanuel reaches both hands out in Dean’s direction.

“Yep,” Dean says, taking Emmanuel. “We’re going to go see Grandma and Grandpa, aren’t we?”

As Adam, Anna, and Jessica join Sam by his horse and start toward the grave markers, Emmanuel asks Dean, “Are we going to see them for _real_ , this time, Pa?”

Dean raises his eyebrows at Castiel and says, “What do you mean, kiddo?”

“I remember last time,” Emmanuel answers, frowning. “They were rocks.”

“Emmanuel, your grandparents are not rocks,” Castiel says gently, moving to follow the others. “They’re not here anymore, so we go to the rocks to talk to them.”

Her son’s eyes go wide, and he asks excitedly, “Does that mean they’re _inside_ the rocks?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, that’s exactly where they are.”

“Dean,” Castiel says reprovingly, but she chooses not to correct him. It is good for Emmanuel to exercise his imagination. Perhaps four is still too young for a child to understand death. Despite having gone to watch her brothers hunt, Castiel doesn’t think she truly understood death until her father was gone.

She hopes with all her heart that Emmanuel will not feel that pain for many, many years.

They reach the headstones quickly, and Emmanuel falls silent when Dean sets him down beside his solemn uncles and aunts-to-be. It’s quiet for a long moment, and Castiel looks at the delicately carved lettering detailing the names of Dean’s parents, the years of their births and deaths.

She wishes she’d had the opportunity to meet them. Dean hasn’t said much about his parents, but Castiel has managed to put together some sense of who they were, what they were like.

John Winchester was an iron-willed man, with a rigid moral code and an inability to accept disobedience, especially from his sons. He ruled strictly but justly, and he taught his sons how to defend their country and their family, and how to be strong, respectable men.

Mary Winchester was a beautiful woman—she must have been, because according to Sam, Dean inherited his appearance from their mother. But she was also kindhearted and compassionate, and it was from her that Dean, Sam, and Adam learned how to be _good_ men.

Castiel is certain that she would have liked her mother-in-law, if she is all that her sons have made her out to be. And she feels that she would have grown to like her father-in-law as well.

When Castiel was young, she was taught that the afterlife consisted only of Heaven and Hell—that if she was good, she would go to Heaven, and if she was bad, she would go to Hell. But the lines between “good” and “bad” have become blurred over time, and Castiel wonders whether wisdom truly comes with age—where there once was clarity, there is now only confusion. Adding to that confusion are writings of other peoples who believe in different afterlives, consisting of rebirth and reincarnation, of trials and spells from ancient books, of a great river separating life from death.

Closing her eyes, Castiel casts her thoughts aside.

It doesn’t matter which afterlife is the true afterlife. What does matter is that wherever they are, John and Mary Winchester are happy. Castiel hopes that they can see their family here on Earth, that they know everyone is living well.

There’s a light tug on her dress, drawing her back into the present, and Castiel looks down to see Emmanuel’s large, blue eyes fixed on her. “Can we go back now, Mama?”

Sam laughs a little and responds before Castiel can. “Is it too boring out here, Emmanuel?”

“I want to finish my drawing,” Emmanuel says.

“Oh my, is your son an artist already?” Jessica asks, smiling.

“He seems to think so,” Dean answers. Glancing at Castiel, he says, “Why don’t you take him back to the carriage? We’ll go back soon. Preparations for the feast need overseeing, anyway.”

Castiel nods. “Come on, Emmanuel.”

“We’ll come with you,” Adam says, turning to follow. He pulls Anna along with him—their hands are clasped together, and the sight makes Castiel smile.

When they reach the carriage, Emmanuel insists on climbing up without any assistance, so Castiel just stands nearby and keeps a close eye on him because the two rungs leading up into the carriage are a little far apart for his short legs and a little narrow for his limited coordination.

“Any news yet?” Anna asks.

Castiel considers keeping it a secret, but Anna looks so hopeful that she can’t deny her. “About two months,” she replies, and Anna’s face lights up.

“Really?” Adam says. “Does Dean know?”

“Not yet. I was planning to tell him tonight, after Emmanuel’s banquet.”

“Why not before? He could announce it at the banquet, then,” Adam says.

Castiel shakes her head. “No—tonight is for Emmanuel. I don’t want to take the focus away from him.”

“I made it!” Emmanuel announces, standing just inside the carriage and peering out at them.

“Good job,” Castiel says. Looking over at her brother and her former maid, she asks, “Do you know when you want to have the wedding?”

“Sam and I were thinking about doing them at the same time,” Adam says. “If you and Dean aren’t opposed, of course.”

“No objections—that sounds lovely,” Castiel says. “You should bring it up with Dean separately, but I’m sure he’ll allow it.” Then Emmanuel runs into her legs, and she smiles down at him. “What are you doing down here? I thought you’d gotten into the carriage.”

“I want to go _home_ ,” Emmanuel whines, pushing his lower lip out.

Castiel looks back in the direction of the cemetery and sees Sam and Jessica coming toward them. Dean remains where he was, a now-solitary figure among the rows of gravestones.

“We’ll be home soon, Emmanuel. Be patient,” she says.

* * *

Dean waits until Sam and Jessica have left before taking a step closer and tilting his head back, looking up at the blue sky. There’s not a cloud in sight.

“Hello,” Dean says.

He thinks about telling them everything that’s happened, thinks about updating them on Sam and Adam’s successful proposals, but… well, everyone’s already been here. Mother and Father have seen their daughters-to-be, and there’s not much else for Dean to report. They’ve all been so happy that Dean can hardly believe it’s all real.

So he just says, “Thank you, Mother, Father, for looking after us.”

Dean lingers there for a moment before turning to go back to the others. Anna, Jessica, and Emmanuel are already nowhere to be seen—must be inside the carriage. Adam is already in the driver’s seat, gathering the reins in one hand, and Sam mounts his horse as Dean draws near.

Cas is standing by the door of the carriage, waiting for him, and Dean smiles and pulls her in for a kiss as soon as she’s within reach.

“Is everything all right?” she asks quietly, fixing a concerned gaze on him.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean answers. “All’s well, here.”

And it _is_ , Dean decides a minute later, climbing into the saddle and grabbing the reins. He thinks of his family—his brothers, his soon-to-be sisters, his son, and his lovely, extraordinary wife—and smiles.

All is so perfectly, damnably well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That may have just been the sappiest ending I have ever written, but I'm not even sorry. Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed the story, and thank you so very much for reading. :)
> 
> PS- If you recognize the final line, yes, it was intentional, and also ilu<3


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